Jack & Jill (Alex Cross 3)

113

I ALWAYS WANT everything tied up nice and neat with a bright ribbon and bow on the package. I want to be the mastermind dragonslayer on every case. It just doesn’t work out that way—probably wouldn’t be any fun if it did.

I spent the next two and a half days at the Sterling house, working side by side with the Secret Service and FBI. Jay Grayer and Kyle Craig both came out to the house in Chevy Chase. I had an idea in the back of my head that maybe Jeanne Sterling had left us a clue to go on—something to get back at her murderers. Just in case. I figured that she was capable of something nasty and vengeful like that—her last dirty trick!

After two and a half days, we didn’t find anything in the house. If there had been a clue, then someone had gotten into the house first. I didn’t discount that possibility.

Kyle Craig and I talked out in the kitchen late in the afternoon of the third day. We were both pretty well worn to the bone. We opened a couple of Brett Sterling’s microbrewery ales and had a chat about life, death, and infinity.

“You ever hear of the notion—too many logical suspects?” I asked Kyle as we sipped our beers in the quiet of the Sterling kitchen.

“Not that specific language, but I can see how it applies here. We have scenarios that could implicate the CIA, the military, maybe big business, maybe even President Mahoney. History rarely moves in straight lines.”

I nodded at Kyle’s answer. As usual, he was a quick study. “Thirty-five years after the Kennedy assassination the only thing that’s certain is that there was some kind of conspiracy,” I said to him.

“No way to reconcile the physical evidence—ballistic and medical—with one shooter in Dallas,” Kyle said.

“So there’s the same goddamn problem—too many logical suspects. To this day, nobody can rule out the possible involvement of Lyndon Johnson, the Army, a CIA ‘black-op,’ the Mafia, your outfit’s old boss. There are such obvious parallels to what’s happened here, Kyle. A possible coup d’état to eliminate a troublemaker in office—with a much friendlier replacement—LBJ, and now Mahoney—waiting in the wings. The CIA and the military were extremely angry at both JFK and Thomas Byrnes. The system fiercely resists change.”

“Keep that in mind, Alex,” Kyle said to me. “The system fiercely resists change, and also troublemakers.”

I frowned, but nodded my head. “I have it in mind. Thanks for all your help.”

Kyle reached out his ha

nd and we shook. “Too many logical suspects,” I said. “Is that part of the nasty, badass plot, too? Is that their idea for cover in daylight?

“It wouldn’t surprise me if it was. Nothing surprises me anymore. I’m going home to see my kids,” I finally said.

“I can’t think of anything better to do,” Kyle said and smiled and waved for me to go on and get out of there.

CHAPTER

114

I CAME HOME and played with the kids—tried to be there for them. I kept flashing on the face of Thomas Byrnes, though. Occasionally, I saw beautiful little Shanelle Green or Vernon Wheatley or even poor George Johnson, Christine’s husband. I saw the corpses of Jeanne and Brett Sterling on those stainless steel gurneys at Lorton Prison.

I worked some hours at the soup kitchen at St. A’s over the next few days. I’m “Mr. Peanut Butter Man” there. I ration out the PB&J, and occasionally a little pro bono advice for those more or less unfortunate than myself. I really enjoy the work. I get back even more than I give.

I couldn’t concentrate on much of anything, though. I was there, but I wasn’t really there. The concept of no rules was stuck like a fish bone in my throat. I was choking on it. There really were too many suspects to chase down and ultimately solve the murder of Thomas Byrnes. And there were limitations to how much a D.C. cop could do on such a case. It’s over now, I tried to tell myself, except the parts you will always carry with you.

One night that week—late—I was out on the sun porch. I was scratching Rosie the cat’s back and she was purring sweetly. I was thinking about playing the piano, but I didn’t do it. No Billie Smith, no Gershwin, no Oscar Peterson. The monsters, the furies, the demons were loose in my mind. They came in all shapes and sizes, all genders, but they were human monsters. This was Dante’s Divine Comedy, all nine circles, and we were all living here together.

Finally, I began to play my piano. I played “Star Dust” and then “Body and Soul,” and I was soon lost in the glorious sounds. I didn’t think about a call I’d had earlier in the week. I had been suspended from the D.C. police force. It was a disciplinary action. I had struck out at my superior, Chief George Pittman.

Yes, I had. I was guilty as charged. So what? And now what?

I heard a knock at the porch door. Then a second rap.

I wasn’t expecting company and didn’t want any. I hoped it wasn’t Sampson. It was too late for any visitors I needed to see that night.

I grabbed my gun. Reflex action. Force of habit. Terrifying habit when you stop and think about it—which I did.

I rose from the piano bench and went to see who was there. After all the bad things that had happened, I almost expected to see the killer Gary Soneji, come to finally get even or, at least, to try his luck.

I opened the back door—and I found myself smiling. No, I actually glowed. A light went on, or went back on, inside my head. What a nice surprise. I felt much, much better in an instant.

It just happened that way. Pack up all my cares and woes.