Cross Justice (Alex Cross 23)
“Time for bath and bed, pumpkin,” he said, wiping chocolate frosting from the corners of the little girl’s mouth.
“Tell me a story, Grandfather?” she asked.
“A good one, Lizzie,” he promised. “You go to Grandma and take your bath. After you get in your jammies, Grandfather will tuck you in and tell you the best story you ever heard.”
“About magical princesses?” She beamed, clasping her hands. “And fairies?”
“What else?”
She kissed her grandfather on the cheek and scampered out of his office and down the hallway. Was there anything better than these moments? Could there be a stronger bond? He thought not. They were more father and daughter than grandfather and granddaughter. It was like they were emotionally welded together in a way that sometimes shocked him.
A phone rang in one of the drawers, broke into his thoughts.
He retrieved the phone, answered, said, “Wait.”
He went to the doorway and heard giggling voices and running water in the bathroom down the hall. Shutting the door, he said, “Talk.”
“They had Cross dead to rights, and they let him get away.”
Lizzie’s grandfather rubbed at his brow, wanted to break something.
“Idiots,” he said. “How difficult can it be?”
“He’s tough.”
“Cross is a goddamned threat to everything we’ve built.”
“Agreed.”
He thought several moments, said, “We need to go professional.”
“You got a player in mind?”
“Contact that woman we used last year. She’ll get it done right.”
“She’s expensive.”
“There’s a reason. Let me know.”
Lizzie’s grandfather broke the burn phone and threw it in the trash. Then he left the office and padded down the hall toward the bathroom. With every step, he turned his thoughts toward magical princesses and fairies.
Chapter
48
Belle Glade, Florida
Early the next morning, Detective Sergeant Pete Drummond drove an unmarked vehicle to the west side of the county, far from the megamansions and the deep blue sea.
Detective Richard S. Johnson looked out the window as they passed what used to be a hospital, and what used to be a grocery store, and a boarded-up shop that used to sell clothes. Some blocks, there were so many abandoned, windowless buildings pocked with bullet holes, it looked like parts of Afghanistan Johnson had seen serving in the Marine Corps.
They crossed a canal and took the Torry Island Road out into agricultural fields south of Pelican Bay on Lake Okeechobee, cane mostly, and corn, and celery. Johnson could see people out there picking in the infernal heat.
Drummond took a left onto a spur road. A sheriff’s cruiser was parked in the turnaround ahead, lights flashing. The county medical examiner’s van was parked beyond it. The sergeant climbed out of the rig, and Johnson followed him.
Deputy Gabrielle Holland got out of her cruiser, said, “Got her all taped off for you, Sarge. We’re just lucky a gator didn’t get to her before I did.”
“You identify her?” Drummond asked.