“You keeping out of trouble, Alex?” Mr. Mayor nodded and smiled as he took in the unusual playroom scene. Monroe was in his mid-forties, and ruggedly handsome. He had a full head of hair and a thick black mustache. He looked businesslike in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and bright yellow tie.
“Oh, yeah. I’m just trying to do something worthwhile with my spare time here. Both Sampson and I are.”
That got a mayoral chuckle. “Looks like you’ve succeeded. Let’s take a ride. Come with me, Alex. We’ve got to talk over a few things.”
I said good-bye to the kids and Ms. Kim and walked with Monroe out of the school building. Maybe I’d find out what was really going on now, and why I was on the kidnapping instead of my homicide cases. And if I had any choice in the matter.
“You come in your own car, Alex?” Monroe asked as we jogged down the school’s front steps.
“Mine and HFC Finance’s,” I said.
“We’ll take your car. How’s the S.I.T. group working out for you? The concept’s strong,” he said as we continued toward the parking area. He had apparently already sent his own driver and car ahead. A man of the people, our mayor.
“What exactly is the concept for S.I.T.?” I asked him. I’d been pondering my current job situation, especially reporting in to George Pittman.
Carl Monroe smiled broadly. He can be very slick with people, and he’s actually very smart. He always appears to be caring and benevolent, and maybe he is. He can even listen when he needs to.
“The main idea is to make sure that the strongest black men and women in the Metro police force rise to the top, as they should. Not just the ass-kissers, Alex. That hasn’t always happened in the past.”
“I think we’d be all right without too much affirmative action. You heard about the murders in Condon and Langley Terrace?” I asked Monroe.
He nodded, but didn’t say anything more about the signature murders. They were not a priority with the mayor today.
“Mother, daughter, three-year-old little boy,” I persisted, starting to get angry again. “Nobody gives a shit about them.”
“So what’s new, Alex? Nobody cared about their lives. Why should anybody care about their death?” We had gotten to my car, a ’74 Porsche that has seen much better days. The doors creaked and there was a faint odor of past fast-food lunches. I drove it during the three years I was in private practice. We both got in.
“You know, Alex, Colin Powell is head of the Joint Chiefs now. Louis Sullivan was our secretary of Health and Human Services. Jesse Jackson helped to get me this job,” Monroe said as we got onto Canal Row and headed downtown. He stared at his reflection in the side window as he talked.
“And now you’re helping me?” I said. “Without even being asked. That’s real nice, real thoughtful.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “ You’re so damn quick, Alex.”
“Then help me out here. I want to solve the murders in the projects. I’m sorry as hell about those two white children, but their kidnapping won’t go wanting for attention or help. Fact is, that’s going to be a problem. Too much goddamned help.”
“Of course it is. We both know that.” Monroe nodded agreement. “Those dumb bastards will be tripping all over one another. Listen to me, Alex. Will you just listen?”
When Carl Monroe wants something from you, he’ll talk you into submission if he has to. I had seen this before and now he started up with me again.
“As the legend of Alex Cross has it, you’re broke now.”
“I’m doing fine,” I said. “Roof over our heads. Food on the table.”
“You stayed in Southeast, when you could easily have gotten out,” he continued with this broken record I’d heard before. “You still working over at St. A’s?”
“Yeah. Soup brigade. Some free therapy sessions. The Black Samaritan.”
“You know, I saw you in a play once at St. A’s. You can act, too. You have real presence.”
“Athol Fugard’s The Blood Knot.” I remembered the time. Maria had lured me into her theater group. “The play is powerful. It can make anybody look all right.”
“You follow what I’m saying? You listening to me at all?”
“You want to marry me.” I laughed out loud at Monroe. “You want to go out on a date with me first, though.”
“Something like that,” Monroe roared back.
“You’re doing it just the right way, Carl. I like to be sweet-talked before I get fucked.”