Detective Cross (Alex Cross 24.50)

The screen jumped and showed the same person, wearing jeans and black shoes, hoodie up, face blocked from view, standing near some lockers, and a trash can. He was eating a drumstick from a yellow Popeye’s box. He finished it, put the bone in the box, and then walked away when the Acela to Boston was called for boarding.

“That’s our bomber,” I said. “He could have trashed the box right there.”

“Exactly,” Mahoney said. “Why wait?”

Bree’s phone and my phone buzzed almost simultaneously. I looked down at the text, and jumped to my feet. Bree did the same.

“What’s going on?” Mahoney said.

“Someone called in a bomb threat to Jannie’s high school,” I said. Ignoring the fact that I was suspended from the force, I followed Bree to her squad car. We raced north through the city, sirens and lights flashing, to Benjamin Banneker Academic High School. We stopped at a patrol car blocking access to Sherman Avenue and Euclid Streets.

It was ten in the morning, almost hot, and though they were well removed from school property, the kids gathered on sidewalks and lawns looked anxious.

“Everyone’s out?” Bree asked the principal, Sheila Jones, a woman we both liked and respected.

Jones nodded. “They know the drill. This has happened before, Chief Stone.”

“Bomb scares?” I said.

“It’s usually a student or a friend of a student who’s behind on their studying before a big test. At least that’s my theory, because nothing ever comes of it.”

“Or hasn’t yet,” Bree said. I scanned the crowd of students for Jannie.

“Were there big tests coming up?” I said.

Jones frowned. “Not schoolwide tests. They just finished midterms.”

“Dad?”

I turned to find Jannie had come up behind us. Looking very upset, she threw her arms around me and hugged tight.

“You okay, baby?”

She looked at me, shaking her head, on the verge of tears. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“The threat, Dad. It was called in to me.”

Chapter 23

Less than three miles to the south, Kate Williams sat in the left side window seat three rows behind the driver of the DC Circulator bus, where she could study everyone who came aboard and yet not attract attention.

Kate herself had boarded at 6:30 a.m. Four hours of riding, on top of fourteen hours she’d spent on the bus line the day before, and twelve hours the day before that.

I don’t care what I feel like, or how sore my butt gets, she thought, fighting off a yawn as the bus pulled over near the Vietnam Memorial. Whatever it takes.

She got off at the Vietnam Memorial to stretch her legs, use the public restroom, and buy a warm pretzel and a diet soda from one of the vendors along Constitution Avenue. Another Circulator bus would come along soon and she could resume her vigil.

He rides this bus line, Kate thought again, feeling irritated. I’m sure of it.

Dr. Cross had been interested enough to pass her suspicion along to the FBI and to his wife, but they’d decided against putting surveillance on the routes, relying on the recall of the bus drivers. She couldn’t understand it.

That’s just moronic. What do bus drivers know about bombers?

Eating her pretzel slowly, Kate scanned the steady stream of tourists heading toward the Vietnam Memorial. There seemed even fewer tourists out today than yesterday, when crowds were noticeably lighter than the day before. In the dwindling pool, she felt certain she’d spot the bomber at some point.

And she was confident a solid look would be enough. Kate had the ability to remember faces and recall them later, as in years later, even when the person had aged. Scientists called people with Kate’s gift “super-recognizers.”