Jack & Jill (Alex Cross 3)

She had on faded jeans, a wrinkled yellow crewneck sweater, white half-socks, and no shoes. A tortoiseshell comb pulled her hair back to one side, and she was wearing her glasses. She looked as if she were working at home. Still working at this late hour. Peas in a pod, weren’t we? Well, not exactly. I was a long way from my pod, actually.

“Detective Cross?” She was surprised; understandably so. I was kind of surprised to be standing there myself.

“Nothing has happened on the case,” I quickly reassured her. “I just have a few more questions.” That was true. Don’t lie to her, Alex. Don’t you dare lie to her. Not even once. Not ever.

She smiled then. Her eyes seemed to smile as well. They were very large and very brown, and I had to stop staring at them immediately. “You do work too late, too hard, even u

nder the current circumstances,” she said.

“I couldn’t turn this horrible thing off tonight. There are two cases, actually. So here I am. If this is a bad time, I’ll stop by at the school tomorrow. That’s no problem.”

“No, come on in,” she said. “I know how busy you are. I can imagine. Come in, please. The house is a mess, like our government, all the usual boilerplate copy applies.”

She led me back through an entranceway with a cream marble floor and past the living room with its comfortable-looking sectional sofa and lots of earth colors: sienna, ocher, and burnt umber.

There was no guided tour, though. No more questions about why I was there. A little too much silence suddenly. My chi energy was draining off somewhere.

She took me into the huge kitchen. She went to the refrigerator, a big, double-door jobbie that opened with a loud whoosh. “Let me see, we’ve got beer, diet cola, sun tea. I can make coffee or hot tea if you’d like. You do work too hard. That’s for sure.”

She sounded a little like a teacher now. Understanding, but gently reminding me that I might have areas of improvement.

“A beer sounds pretty good,” I told her. I glanced around the kitchen, which was easily twice the size of ours at home. There were rows of white custom cabinets. A skylight in the ceiling. A flyer on the fridge promoting a “Walk for the Homeless.” She had a very nice home—she and George did.

I noted an embroidered cloth on a wall stretcher. Swahili words: Kwenda mzuri. It’s a farewell that means “go well.” A gentle hint? Word to the wise?

“I’m glad to hear you’ll have a beer,” she said, smiling. “That would mean you’re at least close to knocking off for the day. It’s almost ten-thirty. Did you know that? What time is it on your clock?”

“Is it that late? I’m real sorry,” I said to her. “We can do this tomorrow.”

Christine brought me a Heineken and iced tea for herself. She sat across from me at an island counter that subdivided the kitchen. The house was far from being the mess she’d warned me about when I came in. It was nicely lived-in. There was a sweet, charming display of drawings from the Truth School on one wall. A beautiful mud cloth on a stretcher also grabbed my eye.

“So. What’s up, doc?” she asked. “What brings you outside the beltway?”

“Honestly? I couldn’t sleep. I took a drive. I drove out this way. Then I had the bright idea that maybe we could cover some ground on the case… or maybe I just needed to talk to somebody.” I finally confessed, and it felt good. Directionally good, anyway.

“Well, that’s okay. That’s fine. I can relate to that. I couldn’t sleep myself,” she said. “I’ve been wound tight ever since Shanelle’s murder. And then poor Vernon Wheatley. I was pruning the plants, with ER on the television for background noise. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?”

“Not really. I don’t think it’s so strange. ER is good. By the way, you have a beautiful house out here.”

I could see the living room TV set from the kitchen. A mammoth Sony playing the medical drama. A black retriever, a young dog, wandered in from the direction of a narrow hallway with oatmeal-colored carpeted stairs. “That’s Meg,” Christine told me. “She was watching ER, too. Meg loves a good melodrama.” The dog nuzzled me, then licked my hand.

I don’t know why I wanted to tell her, but I did.

“I play the piano at night sometimes. There’s a sun porch in our house, so the awful racket doesn’t bother the kids too much. Either that or they’ve leaned to sleep right through it,” I said. “A little Gershwin, Brahms, Jellyroll Morton at one in the morning never hurt anyone.”

Christine Johnson smiled, and seemed at ease with this kind of talk. She was a very self-assured person, very centered. I’d noticed that right from the first night. I had sensed it about her.

“Damon has mentioned your nocturnal piano playing a few times at school. You know, he occasionally brags about you to the teachers. He’s a very nice boy, in addition to being a brainiac. We like him tremendously.”

“Thank you. I like him a lot myself. He’s lucky we have the Sojourner Truth School nearby.”

“Yes, I think he is,” Christine agreed. “A lot of D.C. schools are a complete disgrace, and so sad. The Truth is a small miracle for the children who attend.”

“Your miracle?” I asked her.

“No, no, no. A lot of people are responsible, least of all me. My husband’s law firm has contributed some guilt money. I just help to keep the miracle going. I believe in miracles, though. How long has it been since your wife died, Alex?” she suddenly changed gears. But Christine Johnson made the question conversational and low-key and very natural to ask, even if it wasn’t. Still, it took me by surprise. I sensed I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t want to.

“It’s going to be five years soon,” I told her, partly holding my breath as I did. “This March, actually. Jannie was still a little baby. She was less than a year old. I remember coming in and holding her that night. She had no idea that she was comforting me.”