James Patterson - Cross Justice

“Freeze, Coco!” Detective Johnson yelled. “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot!”

“Don’t worry, Detective,” I said. “It’s not loaded.”

Mize’s flawless porcelain skin tightened over his exquisite cheekbones, and disbelief gave way to rage. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again — nothing.

He pulled the gun back as if he meant to chop me with it. Before he could, I slapped him silly, dazed him, and knocked him to the ground. Johnson was putting cuffs on him when Sergeant Drummond appeared, gasping for breath.

“Tough trip over the gate?” I asked.

“You have no idea,” Drummond said, wheezing. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“You heard everything?” I asked, going past Mrs. Striker, who was still bleeding and looking confused. I crouched down to the carpet and picked up my cell phone and the magazine from the Ruger.

“Loud and clear,” the sergeant said, waving his cell at me. “Enough probable cause in anyone’s book.”

“This is entrapment,” Mize said. “I want a lawyer. I’m being persecuted.”

“For what?” Johnson demanded as he hauled him to his feet.

“Cross-dressing,” he said. “Getting into a little weird sex. Right, Pauline?”

Mrs. Striker raised her bleeding head and glared at him. “He’d been a friend since he’d painted my portrait, and he just tried to kill me. He put on my lingerie, said I was his mother tonight, and tried to kill me. And I’ll testify to it in court, Edwin’s new deal be damned.”

“Can we call an ambulance for you?” I asked, smiling.

“Please,” she said. “And could you get me some clothes? I don’t want to be seen this way.”

“Tell me what you need,” I said as Johnson hauled Mize from the room.

She asked for the clothes Mize had stripped her of and held them and the robe against her when she stood unsteadily and walked to the bathroom. Before she closed the door completely, she peered out at me.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Drummond said, “That’s Alex Cross, don’t you know?”

he shook her head and shut the door.

“That was something,” the sergeant said as he scratched at his slack chin.

“We good?” I asked.

“Oh, you and me, we’re fine,” Drummond said. “Me and my boss and the DA? That may be another story.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the way I came in here gets some of it excluded in court. But so what? You know who killed the four now. Just have to rebuild the case based on what you know and prove it outside of here. And I’ll testify however I’m allowed.”

Drummond thought about that, nodded, said, “I suppose the most important thing was saving Mrs. Striker and getting a lunatic cross-dresser off the streets of Palm Beach.”

“Or out of the bedrooms, anyway.”

The sergeant seemed to chew on something, and then he said, “This how a lot of your cases go?”

“Actually, every single one of them is different.”

“After you make your statement, you’ll go back to North Carolina?”

“Tomorrow sometime, I hope.”

“Get that guy Melvin Bell?”

“Marvin Bell. He’s one of our suspects, but I haven’t excluded anyone.”

“Sounds to me like he’s your man.” Sirens wailed, coming closer.

“My gut says he is too, but we’ll see,” I said.

Drummond stuck his hand out, said, “A pleasure to meet you, and thank you for your help here.”

I shook it, said, “The feeling’s mutual, Sergeant. I hope we see each other again someday.”

He smiled that crooked smile of his, said, “I’d like that.”

The bathroom door opened. Mrs. Striker came out in a beautiful nightgown and a new robe. She held a washcloth to her head.

“Can you help me downstairs?” she asked weakly. “I don’t want to receive visitors in my bedroom.”

“Of course,” I said, coming over and giving her my elbow.

She held on to it. Drummond stepped aside. We walked slowly out into the hallway. At the far end, beyond the stairs, hung a portrait in oil.

I had to hand it to Mize. As Coco, he had captured Pauline Striker at what must have been the pinnacle of her beauty and charm.

Starksville, North Carolina

In the remodeled kitchen of the house where I grew up, Nana Mama stared at me blankly and said quietly, “Your father lived another two years?”

I nodded and gave her the rest of it, including the suicide, including a description of her son’s small tombstone.

My grandmother held a trembling fist to her mouth. With her other hand, she plucked off her glasses and wiped at tears.

“Why’d he kill himself?” she asked.

“Guilt? Grief? The aloneness?” I said. “I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

“He must have been the one.”

“What one?”

“The caller,” Nana Mama said. “For the first year or two that you lived with me, always around a holiday or, come to think of it, one of you boys’ birthdays, I’d get a call with no one on the other end. At first I thought it was just a mistake, but I’d hear things in the background, a television or music playing. And then the line would click dead.”

“When did that stop?” I asked.

“Around two years after you came to DC?”

The timeline fit, but before I could say so, Jannie rapped on the frame of the kitchen entrance. “We have to go. I want a chance to warm up on my own.”

I checked my watch. We did have to go.

“You all right?” I asked Nana Mama as I stood up from the table.

She hesitated and then said, “I suppose I am. Better than before.”

“He was punished for his sins, and then he died,” I said.

My grandmother said, “There’s balance there. Should we go?”

“You’re up to the ride?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said, and she got to her feet. She put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Alex.”

“For what?”

“Clearing things up.”

“Wish it had turned out some other way for him.”

“I do too. I always will.”

I helped Nana Mama out onto the porch, where Jannie, Bree, Ali, and Pinkie were waiting. We trooped out to the car and my cousin’s truck. Ali and Jannie wanted to ride with Pinkie. To my surprise, so did my little grandmother, who looked cute and ridiculous in the front seat of the one-ton pickup.

“I’ve never ridden in one of these,” she called out the window, and she waved with such enthusiasm that Bree and I had to grin.

“She’s one of a kind,” Bree said, climbing into the Explorer.

“Could you imagine if there were two?” I said, starting the car.

“I don’t think the world would be big enough.” Bree chuckled, leaned over, and kissed me. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too. And by the way, I loved the welcome-back celebration last night.”

She laughed contentedly, said, “Mmm. That was nice, wasn’t it?”

We held hands as we followed Pinkie through town. Nearing the railroad tracks, Bree said, “Think we have time to stop?”

“Probably, but I don’t know the way. Can we do it coming back?”

Bree looked longingly at the tree line beyond the tracks. “It’s funny how you want to check every couple of hours. It’s like gambling.”

“I can see that,” I said, and we drove on.

The road soon became steep and windy, and it dropped off the plateau in a series of lazy S turns. I noticed play in the Explorer’s wheel that hadn’t been there before. And the brakes were slightly sluggish.

“Remind me to check the fluid levels in Raleigh,” I said.

“Didn’t we do everything before our drive down here?” Bree asked.

“Yes, but something doesn’t feel quite—”