Violets Are Blue (Alex Cross 7)
Chapter 5
THE REST of my day was long, hard, and depressing. More than anything, I needed a break from the Mastermind.
I’m not exactly sure when or where or how I had gotten up the nerve, but I had a date that night. It was with a lawyer for the D.A.’s office here in Washington. Elizabeth Moore was wi
ckedly funny and nicely irreverent. She was a large woman with a really sweet smile that made me smile. We were having dinner at Marcel’s in Foggy Bottom, which is a good spot for this kind of thing. The food is French, with a Flemish flair. The night couldn’t have been going any better. I thought so, and I was pretty sure that Elizabeth would agree.
After the waiter left with our orders for dessert and coffee, Elizabeth put her hand lightly on top of mine. Our table was lit by a simple votive candle in a crystal holder.
“All right, Alex. We’ve gone through all the preliminaries. I enjoyed the preliminaries,” she said. “Now what’s the catch? There has to be a catch. Has to be. All the good ones are taken. I know that from experience. So why are you still playing the dating game?”
I understood exactly what Elizabeth meant, but I pretended to look slightly puzzled.
“Catch?” I shrugged, then I finally started to smile.
She laughed out loud. “You’re what—thirty-nine, forty?”
“Forty-two, but thanks,” I said.
“You passed every test I could possibly throw at you. . . .”
“Such as?”
“Such as picking a great spot for dinner. Romantic, but not too romantic. Such as being right on time when you arrived to pick me up. Such as listening to some of the things that actually interest me. Such as being very handsome—not that it matters to me. Yeah, right.”
“I also like children, wouldn’t mind having more,” I added. “I’ve read all of Toni Morrison’s novels. I’m a decent plumber. I can cook if I have to.”
“The catch?” she asked again. “Let’s leave it.”
Our waiter returned with the coffee and desserts, and right as he was pouring a steaming cup for Elizabeth, the beeper on my belt went off.
Oh, Jesus.
Busted!
I looked across the table at her—and I blinked. I was definitely the first one to blink.
“You mind if I take this? It’s important. I recognize the number—the FBI in Quantico. I won’t be long. I’ll be right back.”
I went to the rest-room area and used my cell phone. I called Kyle Craig in Virginia. Kyle had been a solid friend for many years, but ever since I had become liaison between the Bureau and the D.C. police, I’d seen way too much of him. He kept dragging me into the nastiest murder cases on the FBI’s docket. I hated to take his calls anymore. Now what had happened?
Kyle knew who was calling. He didn’t even bother to say hello. “Alex, do you remember a case you and I worked about fourteen months ago? A runaway girl was found hung from a lighting fixture in her hotel room. Patricia Cameron? There have been two murders in San Francisco that match up. Happened last night in Golden Gate Park. This is a very bad scene—the worst I’ve heard about in a while.”
“Kyle, I’m having dinner with an attractive, very nice, interesting woman. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ll call you. I’m off duty tonight.”
Kyle laughed. I amused him sometimes. “Nana already told me. Your date’s a lawyer, right? Listen to this one. The devil meets with this lawyer. Says he can make the lawyer a senior partner, but the lawyer has to give him his soul and the soul of everybody in his family. The lawyer stares at the devil and asks, ‘So what’s the catch?’” After he told his joke, Kyle went on to tell me more than I wanted to hear about the similarities connecting the awful murders in San Francisco to the one in D.C. I remembered the victim, Patricia Cameron. I could still see her face. I shook off the image.
When he was finished, and Kyle tends to be thorough if a bit long-winded, I went back to join Elizabeth at our table.
She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “I think I just figured out the catch,” she said.
I did my best to laugh, but my insides were already tied up in knots. “Honestly, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
It’s much worse, Elizabeth.
Chapter 6
IN THE morning, I dropped the kids at school on my way to the airport. Jannie is eight; Damon just turned ten. They’re really good kids, but they’re kids. You give them a tiny advantage, they take a lot, and then they take a little more. Someone, I don’t remember who, said that “American children suffer too much mother and too little father.” With my kids, it’s been the exact opposite.