Violets Are Blue (Alex Cross 7)

“I have a grandiose sense of self-importance,” the Mastermind said.

Chapter 39

I SETTLED back into my duties in Washington, where I took some abuse from my detective pals about how much I seemed to enjoy working with the Federal Bureau lately. They didn’t know that I had been approached about becoming an FBI agent and was actually thinking it over. But I was still drawn to the mean streets of D.C.

I had a decent week on the job, and when another Friday rolled around, I also had a date. It struck me a long time ago that the best thing that ever happened to me was being married to Maria and having two great kids with her. It’s not an easy thing to play the dating game at any age, especially when you have kids, but I was committed to it. I definitely wanted to be in love again if I could, to settle down, to change my life. I suppose that most people do.

Occasionally, I would hear my aunts say, “Poor Alex, he doesn’t have anyone to love, does he? He’s all alone, poor baby.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Poor Alex, my butt. I have Damon, Jannie, and little Alex. I also have Nana. And I have lots of good friends in Washington. I make friends easily—like Jamilla Hughes. So far, I haven’t had trouble getting a date either. So far.

Macy Francis and I had known each other since we were little kids growing up in the neighborhood. Macy went on to get a couple of degrees in English and education at Howard and Georgetown. I went to Georgetown, then Johns Hopkins for my doctorate in psychology.

About a year ago, Macy returned to the Washington area to teach English lit at Georgetown. We met again at one of Sampson’s parties. We talked for an hour or so that night, and I found that I still liked her. We agreed to get together again soon.

I called Macy when I got home from my bust of a trip to California. We met at the 1789 Restaurant for drinks and maybe dinner. Macy’s choice. It was near her place in Georgetown.

The restaurant is in a Federal-style town house at Thirty-sixth and Prospect. I got there first, but Macy arrived a few minutes later. She came up, gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek before we sat down in the cozy pub. I liked the fleeting touch of her lips, the smell of a citrus fragrance on her neck. She had on a lilac turtleneck sweater—sleeveless—a black skirt that lightly hugged her, suede sling-back heels. She had small diamond studs in her ears.

As far back as I can remember, Macy had always dressed well. She’d always looked nice, and I guess I had always noticed.

“You know, I’ll tell you a secret, Alex,” Macy said once we had ordered glasses of wine. “I saw you at John Sampson’s party and I thought to myself, Alex Cross looks better than he ever did. I’m sorry, but that’s what went buzzing through my head.”

We both laughed. Her teeth were even and shiny white. Her brown eyes were bright and intelligent. She had always been the smartest in her classes. “I thought the same thing about you,” I told her. “You like teaching okay, the new job at Georgetown working out? The Jesuits leaving you alone?”

She nodded. “My father once told me you’re lucky if you ever find something you like to do. Then it’s a miracle if you can find somebody who’ll pay you to do it. I found both, I guess. How about you?”

“Well,” I said seriously, “I’m not sure if I love my job or if I’m just addicted to it. No, actually I do like it most of the time.”

“You a workaholic?” Macy asked. “Tell the truth, now.”

“Oh, no. . . . Well, maybe . . . some weeks I am.”

“But not this week? At least not tonight.”

“No, this week has been mostly relaxed. Tonight is very relaxed. I need a whole lot more of this,” I said, and laughed.

“You look relaxed, Alex. It’s so nice seeing you again.”

Macy and I continued to talk easily. A few people were eating at banquettes in the pub room, but it was mostly quiet. Parents of Georgetown students often take their kids to 1789 for a special meal. It is special. I was glad I was meeting Macy here. She’d made a good choice.

“I asked some girlfriends about you,” she confessed, then giggled. “Alex Cross is ‘not available,’ a few of them said. ‘He’s kind of a coconut,’ one sister said. The other girls said she was crazy as a loon. But—are you?”

I shook my head. “People are funny, how they need to make judgments on everybody else. I still live in the old neighborhood, don’t I? No coconuts live in Southeast. I don’t think so.”

Macy agreed with that. “You’re right, you’re right. Not too many people understand how we grew up here, Alex. I was named after a damn department store. You believe that?”

“I do. I grew up here, Macy.” We clinked our glasses and laughed.

“I guess I’m lucky my name isn’t Bloomingdale.”

A couple of times, I brought up dinner, but she was more comfortable sitting and talking. I know chef Ris Lacoste, and I love her cooking. I had my heart set on crab cakes garnished with her special slaw. But we drank another couple of glasses of wine, and then Macy started to get a little ahead of me with the wine orders.

“You sure you don’t want to eat something?” I asked a little later.

“I think I already told you that I didn’t,” she said. Then she forced a smile. “I like what we’re doing here, just talking, chilling. Don’t you?”

I did like talking to Macy, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I needed to get some solid food in me pretty soon. I was hungering for some thick, luscious black bean soup. I glanced at my watch and saw it was already ten-thirty. I wondered what time 1789 stopped serving.