James Patterson - Cross Justice

“But what about Stefan? Despite what I said at the track practice, he could have been framed. Maybe by Bell.”

“Or Finn Davis,” I said. “Which is why you’re going to be careful while I’m gone, hang to the outside, and learn everything you can from the public record about the two of them.”

Bree thought about that, and then nodded. “That I can do.”

Palm Beach, Florida

Driven by a hot wind, the flames roared and belched black smoke into the late-morning sky. White egrets circled in the smoke, feasting on clouds of bugs fleeing the fire.

They were harvesting and burning sugarcane on both sides of Florida Route 441 as I headed west toward Lake Okeechobee, and twice I had to slow to a crawl, the smoke was so thick.

Finally I got upwind of the fire and the smoke was gone. I saw the sign welcoming me to Belle Glade. It was where my father had killed himself and as hard luck a place as I’d ever seen. I’d heard about the city, of course. Who in law enforcement hadn’t? As a municipality, Belle Glade used to have a murder rate the equivalent of a big metro area like DC or Chicago. After five minutes in Belle Glade, I could see some of the reasons why.

But I wasn’t there to diagnose and solve social ills, so I ignored the empty buildings and storefronts pocked with bullet holes and relied on Google Maps to lead me to the various churches around town. I wanted to find out how my father came to kill himself behind one of them.

There were a lot of churches in Belle Glade. At the first two, one for Baptists and another for Adventists, I got no helpful information. At St. Christopher’s Catholic Church, I talked with a priest painting the rectory door. Father Richard Lane was in his fifties and had only recently been transferred to Belle Glade.

“Thirty-three years ago?” he said, squinting at me. “I don’t know how you’re going to find someone just on a name.”

“I believe in miracles, Father,” I said.

“Well, I can check and see if a funeral Mass was said for Mr. Brown here, but if the old records are as poorly maintained as the newer ones are, I can’t offer you much hope, Detective Cross.”

I gave the priest my business card, told him to call if he found anything.

Over the next two hours, I knocked on the doors of every other place of worship in town. Someone answered at every church, but no one knew of a Paul Brown committing suicide there years before.

One evangelical minister recommended I try the churches in nearby towns to the north. Another advised me to do a county records search for death certificates. Both were good ideas, and as I left the second minister, I tried to figure out what to do next and how best to do it.

It was beastly hot and humid, and I was eager to climb into my rental car and cool off in the air-conditioning. But then I noticed a Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office van parked up and across the street next to one of those shabby apartment complexes with two floors and exterior stairs.

I wandered over, looked into the complex, and saw a small crowd of people watching the upper floor where yellow crime tape had been strung up around the door of one of the apartments. A criminalist, a young guy, came down the stairs and started to walk past me.

I held up my badge and identified myself before asking where I’d need to go to get someone with the sheriff’s department to pull some documents for me as a professional courtesy.

“I honestly don’t know,” the tech said. “Sergeant Drummond might.”

“Where’s Sergeant Drummond?” I asked.

“That’s him,” the criminalist said, gesturing to two men dressed in suits exiting the apartment. “The one with the face scar.”

One of the men was big, African American, older, sixties. The other was in his thirties, dark good looks and, judging from his physique, a power lifter. My bet was on the lifter for the face scar, though I can’t tell you why. But when the older detective turned to climb down the stairs, I saw the large patch of ragged skin that began beneath his right eye, ran down seven inches, and then looped back above the jaw toward his ear.

“Sergeant Drummond,” I said, holding up my badge. “Detective Alex Cross, with the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police, homicide division.”

Drummond’s face was flat as he examined my credentials. “Okay?”

The younger detective grinned and stuck out his hand. “Detective Richard S. Johnson. I know who you are, Dr. Cross. You used to be FBI, right? I saw one of your Quantico lectures on tape. Sergeant? Haven’t you heard of Alex Cross?”

Drummond handed me back my badge and said, “I hope it doesn’t crush your ego that I haven’t.”

“Unlikely, Sergeant,” I said, smiling. “I have a pretty bombproof ego.”

“So how can we help?” Detective Johnson said. “You down here tracking some serial killer or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said, and I explained that I was looking for a long-lost relative who’d supposedly died in Belle Glade years before.

“We can do a search for you back at the office,” Johnson offered.

“Can we, now?” Sergeant Drummond asked. “Or do we need to figure out who killed Francie Letourneau and two Palm Beach socialites?”

“I don’t want to mess up your investigation,” I said. “Just point me in the right direction. I’ll do the legwork.”

Drummond shrugged. “Follow us back to the office; we’ll see what we can do.”

“And maybe you’d want to take a look at our case?” Johnson said.

“Detective,” Drummond growled.

“What, Sarge?” his junior partner shot back. “This guy’s the expert’s expert. He trains FBI agents, for Christ’s sake.”

“Used to,” I said. “And I’d be glad to help. But if it would crush your ego...”

The sergeant actually smiled, said, “What the hell, Dr. Cross. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

I followed them back to their offices in West Palm, a typical bullpen with cubicles surrounded by other cubicles that had windows and doors. Those were for the commanding officers, including Drummond.

“Johnson, help him find what he’s looking for,” Drummond said. “Sorry I can’t give you the royal treatment you seem to deserve, Cross, but duty calls. I’ve got to make some phone calls, and I’ll get those murder books for you.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. He disappeared into his office and shut the door behind him.

While Johnson went to get us coffee, I sat there listening to the familiar sounds of a homicide unit, detectives on the phone, others in discussion. I hadn’t been gone a week and already I missed it.

Johnson returned with two cups of decent coffee. “I can’t believe Alex Cross is sitting at my desk.”

I stood up. “Sorry.”

“What? No, sit down. It’s an honor. Now, what or who are we looking for?”

“Male. African American. Died roughly thirty-three years ago.”

Johnson turned all business, got another chair, and retrieved his laptop computer. “Name?”

“Paul Brown. Supposedly killed himself behind a church in Belle Glade.”

“I’ll look at county death records and see if he had a sheet with us.”

“You have digital back that far?”

“For all of Florida,” Johnson said as he typed. “State paid for it. Prescient, you ask me.”

I liked the young detective. He was sharp and full of energy. I didn’t know exactly what to think of Drummond other than that he had a dry wit.

“So what’s with Drummond’s scar?” I asked.

Johnson looked up. “First Gulf War. An oil well he was securing blew. Killed two of his men. Shrapnel laid his cheek open like a flap, burned and chewed it all up. Extensive nerve damage. It’s why he hardly ever has any expression. His face just sort of hangs there, right?”