Double Cross (Alex Cross 13)

I reached and took Bree’s hand. “It’s okay. This is just happening a little faster than probably both of us are used to. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Bree answered me with kisses, and then laughter, and more laughter. The whole thing could have been uncomfortable, but somehow it was just the opposite. I hugged her close, and we started to kiss again. I stared into her eyes. “Wow back at you,” I said.

And so the fact that her pager went off at that moment was . . . what? Poetic justice, I guess. Classic irony? The not-so-funny part was that I’d always been the one getting the cell-phone call at just the wrong time.

The pager inside the tent buzzed again. Bree looked over at me without moving.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “It’s yours. You have to answer it. I know the drill.”

“Let me just see who it is.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “See who it is.”

Somebody’s dead. We have to go back to DC.

She ducked inside. A few seconds later, I heard her talking on the phone. “This is Bree Stone. What’s going on?”

I was kind of glad for Bree that she was so much in demand. Kind of glad. I’d heard from my friend Detective John Sampson that her future with the department was as bright as she wanted to make it. Meanwhile, this call could mean only one thing. I looked at my watch. We could probably be back in the city by ten thirty or so. Depending on whether she wanted me to push it, something the R350 could certainly deliver on.

When Bree came out of the tent again, she had already traded in her shorts for jeans, and she was zipping up a hooded Georgia Tech sweatshirt.

“You don’t have to come. I’ll be as quick as I can. Back by breakfast, if not before then.”

I’d already begun gathering up

our things. “And the check’s in the mail, and it’s only a cold sore.”

She laughed, sort of. “I’m really sorry about this. Shit, Alex. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. And pissed off.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “This was the perfect day.” And then, because I couldn’t help myself, and because I knew Bree wouldn’t be insulted by the change of subject, I asked, “So what’s the case?”

Chapter 9

TALK ABOUT A DISORIENTING change of pace and venue, and definitely not a pleasing one, to put it mildly. We reached the Riverwalk apartment building at 10:50 that night, which made the murder scene about six hours cold. Bree had offered to drop me at home on Fifth Street, but I knew she was eager to get here. This was a headline case, that much we knew for sure.

Things were still very busy, and eerie. There were about as many reporters and news vans as I’d expected. The case already had feeding frenzy written all over it: a wealthy victim, a bestselling author, killed in a supposedly safe neighborhood, in a most horrifying way.

Bree’s ID got us as far as curbside, where the tall building’s U-shaped driveway was cordoned off. Technically, it was part of the crime scene, given that the murder victim had actually landed there after she’d been thrown from her terrace in full view of dozens of witnesses.

A team of white-suited techs was still going over the ruined van where she’d landed. It was parked near the entrance. To my eye, the technicians looked like ghosts in the bright lights. Across the street, well over a hundred people stood crowded behind a double line of police barriers. None of the faces jumped out at me, but that didn’t mean anything. This isn’t your case, I reminded myself.

Bree got out of the car and walked around to my side. “Why don’t you go sleep at my place? Please go, Alex. No one’s expecting you home, anyway, right? Maybe we can pick up later where we left off.”

“Or I could wait here and get you back ASAP,” I said, and reclined the driver’s seat for her benefit. “See? Nice and comfortable, sleeps five. I’ll be fine here in the car.”

“You sure?” I knew Bree had to be feeling guilty about to-night. I had been there before, many, many times, only maybe now I knew how my family felt.

“You’d better get going. You’ve probably got half the MPD up there, drooling all over your crime scene.”

A couple of uniformed officers stared our way as Bree leaned in and gave me a good-bye kiss. “What I said before?” she whispered. “I meant it.”

Then she wheeled around on the uniforms. “What the hell are you two doing? Get back to work. Wait! Scratch that. Somebody show me where to go. Where’s my crime scene?”

The transformation in Bree was a thing to behold. Even her posture changed as she strode toward the murder scene. She looked in charge, reminded me of myself, but she was still the sexiest woman I’d ever met.

Chapter 10

THAT NIGHT, a man and a woman in jogging outfits were hidden deep in the crowd gathered on Connecticut Avenue, across from the Riverwalk apartments. As police cars continued to arrive, they were there, admiring their handiwork.