Cross Justice (Alex Cross 23)

“Lot of that up here?” Johnson asked as he stood in line for coffee in a shop that had a nice vibe to it.

“I’d say so.”

“You hear from Cross?”

“On my way to pick him up,” Drummond said.

Johnson was kind of annoyed. He’d hoped to have more time with Dr. Alex Cross, pick his brain about things.

“Who’s next on your list?” the sergeant asked.

Johnson dug in his pocket for a piece of paper, studied the names, and said, “Crawford.”

“I’ll take Schultz.”

Johnson agreed and clicked off. He got an espresso shot and a mug of robust Kenyan coffee black and poured them together over ice. He read the Palm Beach Post cover to cover and made calls to the Crawford mansion and several others on the list but got nothing other than the opportunity to leave messages.

Johnson walked up to the gallery fifteen minutes early and rapped on the door. A man soon appeared. Tall, stoop-shouldered, and completely bald, he wore white slippers, baggy black trousers, a loose black shirt, and white cotton gloves.

“Detective Johnson?” he said in a deep voice. “Coco said you’d come by. Please, come in. Sorry I wasn’t here earlier, and sorry about the gloves, I’ve had a nasty allergic reaction to some lacquer remover I was experimenting with the other day.”

Johnson walked into the shop, gazed all around, said, “Lot of nice stuff in here. What is it you do, sir?”

“I buy and sell things of beauty,” Mize said. “Fine art, jewelry, rugs, and furniture. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here about Francie Letourneau.”

He frowned, and Johnson noticed he had no eyebrows. No hair of any kind. What did they call that condition?

“What about Francie?” Mize asked.

“She’s dead,” Johnson said.

Mize straightened, moved a white-gloved hand toward his slack mouth, said, “Dead?”

“Murdered,” Johnson said. “Her body was found out past Belle Glade.”

“My God, that’s awful,” Mize said. “I always liked her. Well, at least until I had to fire her.”

“Over?”

“She wasn’t showing up on time and she was doing a half-assed job,” Mize replied. “And though I could never prove it, I think she was stealing things.”

“You think?”

Mize gestured all around. “Keeping track of my inventory is more an art than a science. I can’t begin to remember every piece of jewelry, for example.”

“That what you think she stole?” Johnson said. “Jewelry?”

“Yes,” Mize said. “Several pieces that were my mother’s that just weren’t anywhere one day.”

“How’d you come to hire Francie?”

“Through a service,” he sniffed. “I was told she was highly recommended.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Saw? I don’t know, five months ago, but I heard from her a few days back. She left a message on my machine at home. Can you imagine the gall?”