Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

I smiled at the waitress’s brio, then at what Zachary had said—his first words to me. I’d probably mentioned my kids’ names to him once, but he had an encyclopedic memory for all kinds of disparate information.

“You should go get yourself a couple of kids, Zachary,” I told him, smiling broadly.

He glanced up at an ancient whirring ceiling fan that looked as if it might suddenly spin out of the ceiling. It seemed a nice metaphor for modern life in America, an aging infrastructure threatening to spin out of control.

“Don’t have a wife yet, Alex. Still looking for the right woman,” said Zachary.

“Well, okay then, get yourself a wife first, then get a couple of kids. Might take the edge off your neuroses.”

The waitress placed steaming cups of black coffee in front of us. “Will that be all?” she said. She shook her head, then left us.

“Maybe I don’t want the edge taken off my rather stunning neurotic behavior. Maybe I believe that’s what makes me such a damn fine reporter, and without it my work would be pedestrian shit, and then I’d be nothing in the eyes of Don Graham and company.”

I sipped the day- or two-day-old coffee. “Except that if you had a couple of kids, you could never be nothing.”

Zachary squinted one eye shut and smacked the left side of his lips. He was a very animated thinker.

“Except if the kids didn’t love or even like me very much.”

“And you don’t consider yourself lovable? But actually you are, Zachary. Trust me. You’re just fine. Your kids would adore the hell out of you, and you would adore them. You’d have a mutual adoration society.”

He finally laughed and clapped his hands loudly. We usually laugh a good bit when we’re together.

“So will you marry me and have my children?” He grinned at me over the top of his steaming cup. “This is a pickup joint, after all. Singles from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the Government Printing Office come here, hoping to bed staffers from Kennedy’s or Glenn’s.”

“It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Who called this meeting, anyway? Why are we here at this dive, drinking really bad coffee?”

Taylor slurped his. “Coffee’s fairly strong, isn’t it? That’s something to be thankful for. What’s up, Alex?”

“You interested in another Pulitzer?” I asked him.

He pretended to think it over, but his eyes lit up. “Well, I might be. You see, I need to balance the look of my mantelpiece. One of my dates told me that. Never did see the young woman again. She worked for Gingrich, as a matter of fact.”

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I told Zachary exactly what I thought was up. I told him about the 114 unsolved murders in Southeast and parts of Northeast D.C. I detailed the contrasting investigations of the cases of Frank Odenkirk and the German tourist in Georgetown, and those of the black teenagers Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal. I filled him in on the chief of detectives, his proclivities and his biases, or at least my perception of them. I even admitted that I disliked Pittman intensely, and Zachary knows I’m not that way about too many folks who don’t murder for a living.

He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, while I talked, and didn’t stop when I was finished. “Not that I doubt any of what you’re saying, but do you have any documentation?” he asked.

“You’re such a stickler for details,” I said. “Reporters are such wusses when you come right down to it.”

I reached down under my seat and lifted up two thick manila folders. His eyes brightened.

“This should help with the story. Copies of sixty-seven of the unsolved homicide reports. Also a copy of the Glover and Cardinal investigation. Note the number of detectives assigned to each. Check the case hours logged. You’ll see a huge discrepancy. That’s all I could get my hands on—but the other reports exist.”

“Why would this be happening, this malicious neglect?” he asked me.

I nodded at the wisdom of his question. “I’ll give you the most cynical reason,” I said. “Some Metro cops like to refer to Southeast as ‘self-cleaning ovens.’ That sound like the beginnings of malicious neglect t

o you? Some victims in Southeast are called NHIs—that’s ‘No Humans Involved.’ The latter is a phrase used by Chief Pittman.”

Zachary quickly leafed through the reports. Then he shook my hand. “I’m going home to my lonely abode, made bearable only by my single Pulitzer. I have all these fascinating police files on NHIs to read, then hopefully a chilling news exposé to write. We’ll see. As always, it’s been a party, Alex. My best to Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. I’d like to meet them one day. Put some faces with the names.”

“Come to the next Washington Boys Choir performance,” I said. “All our faces will be there. Damon is a chorister.”

Chapter 38

I WORKED THAT NIGHT until eight-thirty, and then I drove to Kinkead’s in Foggy Bottom to meet up with Christine. Kinkead’s is one of our favorite restaurants and also an excellent place to listen to jazz and snuggle up to each other.

I sat at the bar and enjoyed the sounds of Hilton Felton and Ephrain Woolfolk until Christine arrived, coming from an event at school. She was right on time, though. She is punctual. Very considerate. Perfect in almost every way, at least in my eyes. Yes, I will be your wife.