“The evidence list from the Fontana murder scene,” I said. “There was a white foil-lined envelope. A piece of one anyway.”
I pulled the new envelope out of the box, tore off a corner, and held it up. “Just like this.”
Sampson started to smile.
“He took pictures of Benny Fontana after he cut him up. It’s the same guy, John.”
Chapter 73
I WORKED A LONG, LONG DAY, but the next night, I was grounded.
Nana had a weekly reading class she was teaching at the First Baptist-run shelter on Fourth Street, and I stayed home with the kids. When I’m with them, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. The problem, sometimes, is just getting me there.
I played chef for the night. I made my and the kids’ favorite, white-bean soup, along with a chopped Cobb salad, and I’d brought home some nice fresh cheddar bread from the bakery next to my office. The soup tasted almost as good as Nana’s. Sometimes I think she has two versions of every recipe—the one in her head and the one she shares with me, minus some key secret ingredient. It’s her mystique, and I doubt it has changed much in the last half century.
Then the kids and I had a long-overdue session with the punching bag downstairs. Jannie and Damon took turns pummeling leather, while Ali ran his trucks around and around the basement floor, which he declared was I-95!
Afterward we migrated upstairs for a swimming lesson with little brother. Yes, swimming. It was Jannie’s concoction, inspired by Ali’s reluctance to get into the bathtub. Never mind that it was even harder to get him out of the bath once he got started. That distinction was lost on him, and he fussed every single time, as if he were allergic to clean. I was skeptical about Jannie’s idea until I saw how it worked.
“Breathe, Ali!” she coached him from the side. “Let’s see you breathe, puppy.”
Damon kept his hands under Ali’s belly while Ali lay facedown on top of the water, mostly blowing bubbles and splashing around. It was hilarious, but I didn’t dare laugh, for Jannie’s sake. I sat at a safe—as in dry—distance, watching from the toilet seat.
“Pick him up for a second,” Jannie said.
Damon stood the big boy up in the claw-foot tub.
Ali blinked and sprayed out a mouthful of water, his eyes gleaming from the game.
“I’m swimming!” he declared.
“Not yet you’re not,” Jannie said, all business. “But you’re definitely getting there, little bro.”
She and Damon were practically as soaked as he was, but no one seemed to care. It was a blast. Jannie was kneeling right in a puddle, while Damon stood up and gave me a conspiratorial oldest-child look that said, Aren’t they crazy?
When the phone rang, they both sprang for the door. “I’ll get
it!” they chorused.
“I’ll get it,” I said, cutting them off at the pass. “You’re both sopping wet. No swimming until I get back.”
“Come on, Ali,” I heard as I started out of the bathroom. “Let’s wash your hair.”
The girl was a genius.
I trotted down the hall to catch the phone before the machine picked up. “Cross family YMCA,” I said, loud enough for the kids’ benefit.
Chapter 74
“IS THIS ALEX CROSS?”
“Yes?” I said. I didn’t recognize the voice on the line though. Just that it was a woman.
“It’s Annie Falk.”
“Annie,” I said, embarrassed now. “Hi, how are you?”
We were acquaintances, not quite friends. Her son was one or maybe two grades ahead of Damon. Annie was an ER doc at St. Anthony’s.