Detective Cross (Alex Cross 24.50)

The trait had helped her in Iraq. Unless the person was wearing a veil or a turban that obscured their features, she’d remember their faces should she see them again, especially in places where IEDs were actively in use.

Kate believed the skill would help her here. She kept combing the crowd, especially the people coming off the Circulator buses, recording faces, looking for twitches in their cheeks, or a slight hesitation when they passed the p

air of police officers flanking the entrance to the walkway and the memorial.

Noticing that the hand of a woman her age shook visibly when she raised a coffee cup passing the cops, Kate focused on her face. Click.

She noted the excited expression of a young teenage boy coming off the next bus, in a blue school windbreaker with a hood. He was laughing and staring at his phone, watching a video no doubt. Pass.

Then she studied a red-faced, angry-looking old guy who got off, wearing a red felt vest festooned with military pins. Click.

A tall, lanky, bearded guy in filthy Army camo fatigues shuffled slowly toward her, heading west. He pushed a shopping cart filled with plastic bags and God only knew what else. Click.

As he came closer she saw his skin was smeared with grime. His dark hair was matted, and he had an odd wildness in his eyes, as if he were on drugs.

Click. Click.

A cop on Constitution Avenue lit up his siren for one whoop. It startled Kate, but the homeless vet seemed not to notice at all—as if he were one of those fanatics she knew all too well, the ones getting ready to kill or be killed.

Click. Click. Click.

There was something about him, something about that grocery cart. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe the bomber didn’t use the bus line. Maybe he was just some homeless, off-the-radar guy, pushing a cart around filled with explosives.

Kate started to follow him, staying four or five people back. The tourists kept a wide berth as he moved resolutely west, and she understood why. He stunk bad.

This could be my guy, she thought.

Her smartphone vibrated in her pocket. Kate dug it out, still trailing the homeless man. She glanced at the screen, seeing a notification from Twitter. She’d set an alert for posts from a local news reporter to make sure she’d see any update on the DC bombings.

The tweet linked to a Washington Post story, D.C. HIGH SCHOOL UNDER BOMB THREAT. He asked, “The bomber again? Leaving the mall?”

Kate slowed her stride and clicked on the link, glancing at the homeless man’s progress before reading the breaking story.

Benjamin Banneker High had been evacuated on a bomb threat twenty minutes earlier, she read. K-9 and bomb squads were on the scene. The bomber’s call had gone to an unidentified student, who had notified school administrators and the police.

Banneker? Something about that nagged at her. She used Google maps to calculate the distance from her location to the school. Two point six miles, give or take.

Kate clocked the homeless vet, still shuffling west. The school wasn’t that far, but there was no way that guy was walking two point six miles in twenty minutes, or even an hour or two. And she couldn’t believe he owned a phone, much less used one to call in a threat.

Kate stopped, feeling doubt in her instincts for the first time, watching until she couldn’t see him anymore. She turned away and headed back toward the Circulator bus stop. She knew the high school was far off the National Monuments bus route.

Maybe I’m wrong, she thought, the purposeful spirit of the last two days sinking. Maybe I’m the moron.

Chapter 24

By three that afternoon, Benjamin Banneker had been cleared for after-hours activities. Like the threats to the Washington Monument and the Air and Space Museum, it appeared to be a false alarm.

Jannie described the caller as a guy with a deep, hoarse voice, who told her there was a bomb in the school and hung up. Bree and I debated the likelihood that the incident was linked to the National Mall bombings. Did we have a copycat at play?

Banneker was not far from the Mall, maybe two and a half miles, but what was the message here? There was symbolism in disrupting access to the national monuments to avenge the wrongs done to veterans. It sent a clear, if misguided, message. How did our daughter’s charter high school fit into that?

Disturbingly, the caller had Jannie’s phone number, and the Mall bomber had Bree’s. We theorized that someone might have hacked into one or both of their phones, or downloaded their contact info from someone else. But when? And how?

These questions were still whirling around in my head early that evening when I boarded the DC Circulator Bus near the World War II Memorial. When I looked in and saw the person sitting three rows behind the driver, I smiled.

I paid the fare and took a seat next to Kate Williams, who stared straight ahead, looking like a poker player who’s been up too long.

“Thought surveillance wasn’t worth it,” she said.