James Patterson - Cross Justice

Bree said, “Looks like someone’s been into that rock pile and scoured the slabs with a steel brush and an abrasive cleanser.”

Pedelini looked pained. “Cece Turnbull did that ’bout six weeks after Rashawn died. She’d heard that some of the local kids had been going out to see where her boy had been raped and killed. Like a fucking shrine. Can you imagine?”

Pedelini’s cheek twitched and his jaw drifted left of center before he said, “Anyway, Cece had gone back to drinking and drugging by then, and she flipped. She brought in a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and some meth and went at that slab with a barbecue brush and graffiti remover. I found the poor thing down there the next morning, stone drunk and weeping.”

Pedelini had us follow him down to the sheriff’s office to make a statement. By the time we got there, it was past three that Saturday afternoon, and the uniformed officers were changing shifts.

The detective showed us into the detectives’ bullpen and pointed us to chairs near his desk, which featured a recent picture of him in a tricked-out bass boat, grinning and fishing with two darling little girls.

“Your daughters?” Bree asked.

The detective smiled, said, “Two of the joys of my life.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “When did your wife pass away?”

My wife frowned at me, but Pedelini cocked his head, said, “How did you know?”

“The way you were rubbing the ring finger of your left hand just then. I used to catch myself doing it after my first wife died.”

Pedelini looked down at his hand, said, “Remind me not to play poker with you, Dr. Cross. My Ellen died seven years ago this September. Childbirth.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” I said. “That’s rough.”

“I appreciate that,” Pedelini said. “I really do. But the girls and my job keep me going. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Coca-Cola? Mr. Pibb?”

“I’ll take a coffee,” Bree said. “Cream, no sugar.”

“A Mr. Pibb,” I said. “Haven’t had one of those in years.”

“I’m partial to them myself,” Pedelini said, and he disappeared down a hallway.

“I like him,” my wife said.

“I do too,” I said. “He’s solid.”

A female deputy came into the room carrying an armful of files and mail that she distributed to the various desks. When she got to Pedelini’s, she said, “Guy here?”

“Getting us something to drink,” Bree said.

She nodded, put several dusty old files on his desk, said, “Tell him these came over from the clerk. He’s been asking after them.”

“We’ll do that,” I promised, and the deputy moved on.

I had a crick in my lower back suddenly, and I stood to stretch. When I did, I happened to look down at the files; I saw the faded labels on the tabs, and felt my head retreat by several degrees.

The label of the file on top read Cross, Christina.

The one below it read Cross, Jason.

I picked up the file on my mother and was about to flip it open when Bree said in alarm, “Alex, you can’t just start going—”

“Oh, Jesus,” Pedelini said.

I looked up, saw the detective balancing a coffee mug and two cans of Mr. Pibb on a small tray. His skin had lost three shades of color.

“I am so sorry, Dr. Cross,” he said, chagrined. “I... I ran your name through our databases, and those files came up. So I... requested them.”

“My name?” I said. “What are these?”

Pedelini swallowed, set the tray down, and said, “Old investigative files.”

“On what?” Bree said, standing to look.

The detective hesitated, and then said, “Your mother’s murder, Dr. Cross.”

At first I thought I’d misheard him. I squinted and said, “You mean my mother’s death?”

“I don’t think so,” Pedelini replied. “They were filed under homicide.”

“My mother died of cancer,” I said.

The detective looked puzzled. “No, that’s not right. The database says murder by asphyxiation, case eventually closed due to the death of chief suspect, who was shot trying to escape the police and fell into the gorge.”

In total shock, I said, “Who was the chief suspect?”

“Your father, Dr. Cross. Didn’t you know?”

Three hours later, Bree drove us back through the streets of Birney. The pain of reading those files was still raw, still searing.

Bree put her hand on mine, said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, Alex. But I’m here for you, sugar. Any way you need me, I’m here for you.”

“Thank you. I... this just changes everything, you know?”

“I know, baby,” Bree said, and she pulled up in front of the bungalow where the files said my dad had smothered my mother with a pillow.

I got out of the car feeling like I’d just been released from the hospital after a life-threatening illness, weak and unsure of my balance. I started toward the front porch with my mind playing tricks on me, seeing flashes of shattered, disjointed memories: my boyhood self running down the train tracks in the rain; watching my father being dragged by a rope; and, finally, staring at my mother’s dead body in her bed, looking so frail, and small, and empty.

I don’t remember falling, only that I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me and set my world spinning.

“Alex?” Bree cried, rushing to my side.

“I’m okay.” I gasped. “Must have tripped or... Where’s Nana?”

“Probably inside,” Bree said.

“I need to talk to her,” I said.

“I know you do, but—”

“Dad!” Ali cried, pushing open the screen door and jumping off the stoop.

“I’m okay, son,” I said, getting to my feet. “Just haven’t eaten enough.”

The door slammed again. Naomi came out, looking concerned.

“He got a little dizzy,” Bree explained.

“Where’s Nana?” I asked.

“At Aunt Hattie’s,” she said. “They’re making dinner.”

“I think you need to go inside and lie down, Alex,” Bree said.

“Not now,” I said, and I fixed on my aunt’s house like it was a beacon in the night.

I took my tentative first steps still bewildered and seeking solace from my grandmother. But by the time I was on Hattie’s porch, I was moving fast, angry and seeking answers.

I stormed inside. Aunt Hattie, Aunt Connie, and Uncle Cliff were in the kitchen. My aunts were dipping tilapia fillets in flour, getting them ready to fry, when I walked in and said, “Where’s Nana?”

“Right here,” she said.

My grandmother was tucked into a chair on my left, reading a book.

I went to her, loomed over her, my hands balled into fists, and said, “Why’d you lie to me?”

Nana Mama said, “Take a step back there, young man. And what’d I lie to you about?”

“My mother!” I shouted. “My father! All of it!”

My grandmother shrank from me and raised her arm defensively, as if she thought I might hit her. The truth was I’d been on the verge of doing just that.

It rattled me. I stepped back, glanced around the room. My aunts were staring at me in fear, and Bree and Jannie and Ali and Naomi had come in and were looking at me like I had gone mad.

“None of that now,” Uncle Cliff roared, standing up with his walker and shaking his finger at me. “No mugging old ladies on my train. You sit your ass down, show me your ticket, or I will throw you off, next stop. You hear?”

Uncle Cliff trembled with force, and I was suddenly a kid again, weak and dizzy. I grabbed a chair and sat, put my head in my hands.