The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross 25)

??Best track program in the country,” I said, feeling my eyes water.

“Long way from home,” Nana Mama said in a way that made me realize she probably wouldn’t get to see Jannie run in person if she went to Oregon.

“It is a really long way,” Jannie said. “I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t have to know right now,” I said. “We’ll listen to everyone, and you’ll make the decision when you are ready. Okay?”

Jannie hugged me. “Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad you were here for that. It could have been different. You know?”

I closed my eyes, kissed the top of her head, and said, “I do, baby girl. I really do.”

CHAPTER

93

WHEN THE ELEVATOR door opened onto the second subbasement below the FBI’s Cyber Division, Keith Rawlins had the tunes cranked inside his lab. The thudding, infectious bass line of Flo Rida’s “My House” came right through the glass window and seemed to vibrate in my chest.

It was a few minutes past seven in the morning, and Rawlins had evidently been in the lab all night. But you wouldn’t have known it. The digital wizard was stripped to his denim shorts, covered in sweat, and bouncing up and down on a mini-trampoline while punching the air in time to the beat.

“I still can’t believe this guy works for us,” said Special Agent in Charge Mahoney, my old partner at the FBI, who had taken over the missing-blondes case for the Bureau.

“I suffer the indignity of it every day,” Special Agent Batra said.

“This could have waited a few hours,” Sampson said, and he yawned.

I said, “He was excited enough about it to call us at five a.m.”

“This better be good,” Sampson said. “All I’m saying.”

Batra rolled her eyes and shouldered open the lab door. The music was blasting. Rawlins had Flo Rida’s music video playing on all screens. He spotted us and high-stepped our way, slinging his limp black Mohawk back and forth while singing, “‘Welcome to my house!’”

Mahoney and Batra looked like they’d spent the night sleeping on coarse sandpaper. I smiled and drew my finger across my throat.

Rawlins stopped dancing, pouted, picked up a remote, and froze the video. The lab got quiet.

“The best part was just coming,” he said. “Clay Pritchard lays down the best saxophone licks since—”

“You woke us up, called us in here,” Batra grumbled. “It wasn’t to dance, was it? Because if it was, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Beyond pissed,” Mahoney said.

Rawlins sighed, said, “Sometimes I wonder if the academy’s training just squeezes the soul and celebration out of every agent who graduates Quantico.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Krazy Kat,” I said.

Rawlins fashioned his hair into a bun like a samurai’s top-knot, a style that appeared to give Mahoney and Batra indigestion. The computer scientist waved a finger at me with one hand and snatched up a towel with the other.

“Took me almost three days straight, but I was able to raise the dead.”

“You calling yourself the Messiah now?” Batra said.

“Just a miracle worker,” Rawlins said as he toweled his upper body dry.

He put on an FBI sweatshirt and a pair of black-and-white checkered sneakers before strolling over to the keyboard for the main screen array.

“A lot of the data was corrupted,” he said, typing. “But I was able to salvage a few things from the day Timmy Walker was killed.”

Rawlins hit Enter, and Flo Rida and his house disappeared on the screens, replaced by shaky video showing a wooded scene. The cameraman was sneaking through thick foliage.