Cross Justice (Alex Cross 23)

We didn’t. He rolled up in an unmarked white Jeep Cherokee five minutes after we did. We walked him through it, pointing to the positions we’d been in when the shooting started and giving him our rough estimate of where the sniper had been.

Pedelini nodded, said, “Do not get ahead of me.”

The detective started hacking his way through kudzu with a machete he’d gotten from a box in the rear of the Cherokee. From our angle, the sniper had appeared to be very close to the rim, but we soon discovered that six or seven feet back from the edge, the ground turned too steep for anyone to walk on safely.

Pedelini stopped where the footing was treacherous, and we all had to hold on to trees for support.

“Here’s your shooter,” he said, pointing with the machete to scuff marks in the leaves. “There’s the legs of his bipod biting in.”

I stepped up, saw the two holes in the duff, and showed Bree where ferns had been matted down. “He was sitting, feet propped against those tree roots, and on a steady rest.”

Pedelini listened to our theories as to why a good shot on a steady rest would have missed us out there in the open, and he said all of them were reasonable but none conclusive. We searched the area and found no empty cartridges, meaning that the shooter had taken the time to clean up, which suggested he was smart and nothing more.

Pedelini led us out of the woods. We were all drenched in sweat, and we climbed into the detective’s air-conditioned car.

“What were y’all doing down there?” Pedelini asked.

“Due diligence,” I said. “I like to walk crime scenes if I can.”

“Find anything?”

“Some of the measurements on the diagrams are off,” I said.

The detective looked disgusted. “Measurements. That’s Frost and Carmichael’s work. Any other flaws?”

He said this with no defensiveness in his voice, as if he were merely looking for pointers from more experienced investigators.

Bree said, “Looks like someone’s been into that rock pile and scoured the slabs with a steel brush and an abrasive cleanser.”

Pedelini looked pained. “Cece Turnbull did that ’bout six weeks after Rashawn died. She’d heard that some of the local kids had been going out to see where her boy had been raped and killed. Like a fucking shrine. Can you imagine?”

Pedelini’s cheek twitched and his jaw drifted left of center before he said, “Anyway, Cece had gone back to drinking and drugging by then, and she flipped. She brought in a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and some meth and went at that slab with a barbecue brush and graffiti remover. I found the poor thing down there the next morning, stone drunk and weeping.”

Chapter

30

Pedelini had us follow him down to the sheriff’s office to make a statement. By the time we got there, it was past three that Saturday afternoon, and the uniformed officers were changing shifts.

The detective showed us into the detectives’ bullpen and pointed us to chairs near his desk, which featured a recent picture of him in a tricked-out bass boat, grinning and fishing with two darling little girls.

“Your daughters?” Bree asked.

The detective smiled, said, “Two of the joys of my life.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “When did your wife pass a

way?”

My wife frowned at me, but Pedelini cocked his head, said, “How did you know?”

“The way you were rubbing the ring finger of your left hand just then. I used to catch myself doing it after my first wife died.”

Pedelini looked down at his hand, said, “Remind me not to play poker with you, Dr. Cross. My Ellen died seven years ago this September. Childbirth.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” I said. “That’s rough.”

“I appreciate that,” Pedelini said. “I really do. But the girls and my job keep me going. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Coca-Cola? Mr. Pibb?”