Cross My Heart (Alex Cross 21)

13

Earlier that same Friday morning and several blocks south of the Takoma Metro station, Kelli Adams, a blond woman wearing heavy makeup and a conservative blue suit, watched a sleek black Audi A5 roll up in front of Child’s Play day care center.

A tall, rail-thin guy in a Brooks Brothers suit came flying out of the Audi, ran around the other side.

He yanked open the passenger-side door, fumbled around inside, and soon came out with an eight-month-old baby girl and a blue diaper bag. He hurried through the gate and up the steps, then disappeared inside.

“Father of the year,” Adams muttered under her breath. “It’s time your little girl got to know her mother.”

The father of the year exited Child’s Play, ran down the stairs, jumped into his Audi, and sped off.

That’s enough of that, Adams thought righteously, and started across the street. Giving the front door a quick double rap with her knuckles to indicate she meant business, Adams entered Child’s Play and found herself in the center hallway facing a counter staffed by a cheery-looking young woman whose nameplate said SUSAN.

“Hi,” Susan said. “Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see Marylyn Green,” Adams replied. “She does run this facility?”

“Yes. And you are?”

Adams pulled out a billfold and showed Susan an ID card from the city’s Office of the Deputy Mayor for Health and Human Services. She worked as an investigator with the office’s agency for child and family services.

Susan stood up. “I’ll get Ms. Green.”

“Why don’t you take me to her.”

“What’s this about?” Susan asked.

Adams gave her a cold stare. Susan pushed a button behind the counter. There was a buzzing noise. The door to her right came unlocked. They entered a hallway that smelled of children and babies and echoed with their laughs and cries. They exited into a large room where toddlers were playing.

“Ms. Green,” Susan called to a tall redheaded woman with a kind face. “Someone to see you.”

Adams showed her ID again, said, “I’d like to see Joss Branson. She is in your care, correct?”

“Yes. Joss? What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?” Adams said.

The day care owner led the way into a nursery. There were four cribs in the room. Three were occupied by sleeping babies. A fourth lay on her back, squalling while a tired-looking woman in her fifties changed her diapers.

“Eliza, Ms. Adams is an investigator with DC Child and Family Services,” Marylyn Green said, looking confused. “She wishes to see Joss.”

Eliza pressed the last diaper tape into place and said, “You’re looking at her.”

Adams crossed to the changing table and picked up the wailing child.

“What’s wrong?” Marylyn Green asked again.

“Is she often agitated like this?” Adams demanded.

Eliza looked uncertain. “We call this the crying hour, usually right after they all come in. But they settle down. I guess Joss a little less easily.”

“It’s probably the meth.”

“What!” Green said.

“No,” Eliza said. “Mr. Branson is a scientist at the Smithsonian, and his wife, Crystal, has cancer. Why would they—”

“Mr. Branson is a chemist, and you’re right, she does have cancer. We believe it’s like that television show Breaking Bad. DEA tells us they cook it in the basement. Explains the Audi, doesn’t it?”