James PATTERSON - Cross Fire

“Detective Cross, over here!”

“Is there truth to the rumors–”

“People!” Joyce shouted over the group. Her volume was the stuff of legend around the office. “Let the man make his statement first! Please.”

I quickly ran down the facts of the last twenty-four hours and said what I could about the Bureau’s ballistics report without going into too much detail. After that, it was back to the free-for-all.

Channel 4 got in first. I recognized the microphone but not the reporter, who looked about twelve years old to me. “Alex, do you have any message for the sniper? Anything you want him to know?”

For the first time, something like quiet broke out on the steps. Everybody wanted to hear my answer to that one.

“We’d welcome contact of any kind from whoever is responsible for these shootings,” I said into the cameras. “You know where to find us.”

It wasn’t a great sound bite, and it wasn’t badass or anything else that some people out there might have wanted me to say. But within the investigation, we were all in agreement: there would be no goading, no lines in the sand, and no public characterizing of the killer – or killers – until we knew more about who we were dealing with, here.

“Next question. James!” Joyce called out, just to keep things focused and moving along.

It was James Dowd, one of the national NBC correspondents. He had a thick pad of notes in his hand, which he worked off of as he spoke.

“Detective Cross, is there any truth to the rumors about a blue Buick Skylark with New York plates – or a dark-colored, rusted-out Suburban – near the scene in Woodley Park? And can you tell us if either of those vehicles has been traced back to the killer?”

I was pissed and taken off guard all at once. The problem was, Dowd was good.

The truth was, I had an old friend – Jerome Thurman from First District – quietly following up on both of those leads from the night of the Dlouhy murder. So far, all we had was a mile-long list of matching vehicles from the DMV, and no proof that any of them were connected in any way to the shootings.

But more than that, we had a strong desire to keep this information under wraps. Obviously someone had spoken to the press, which was ironic given my lecture about discretion on the FIG call just a few minutes ago.

I gave the only answer I could. “I have no comment on that at this time.” It was like dangling a steak in front of a pack of wild dogs. The whole mass of them pressed in even closer.

“People!” Joyce tried again. “One at a time. You know how this works!”

It was a losing battle, though. I threw out at least four more “no comments” and stonewalled until someone finally changed the subject. But the damage was already done. If either of those vehicles did in fact belong to the snipers, they now had full warning, and we’d just lost an important advantage.

It was our first major leak of the investigation, but something told me it wasn’t going to be our last.

LISA GIAMETTI LOOKED at her watch for maybe the tenth time. She was going to wait five more minutes and then take off. It was just amazing, the way some people didn’t think twice about wasting your time in this business.

Four and a half minutes into the five she’d allowed, a dark-blue BMW pulled up and double-parked in front of the house. Better late than never anyway. Nice car.

She checked her teeth in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through her short auburn hair, and got out to meet the client.

“Mr. Siegel?”

“Max,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m not used to the city traffic.”

His handshake was warm, and he was just tall, dark, and hot enough to forgive easily. Considering all the eye contact, she figured he liked what he saw as well. Interesting guy, and well worth the wait.

“Come on in,” she told him. “I think you’ll like this place. I know I do.”

She held the door open for him to go first. The place was a half-decent row house on Second in Northeast, a little overpriced for the current rental market but a good fit for the right tenant. “Are you new to Washington?”

“I used to live here, and now I’m back,” he said. “I don’t really know anybody in the city anymore.”

He was doing the code thing – new in town, alone, etc. No ring on the finger either. Lisa Giametti was not an easy mark, but she knew a hungry man when she saw one, and if something happened to happen here, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

She closed the door and locked it behind them.

“It’s a great block,” she went on. “You’ve got the back of the Supreme Court Building right across the street. Not exactly a lot of loud parties over there. And then a nice little yard in the back with off-street parking.”

They came through to the kitchen, where the garage was visible outside. “I don’t have to tell you how handy that can be around here.”

“No,” he said, looking somewhere south of her eyes. “That’s a very nice pendant you’re wearing. You have good taste – in apartments and jewelry.”

This guy didn’t waste any time, did he?

“And how about the basement?” he asked next.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I’d like to see the basement. There is one, isn’t there?”

Normally the client might have asked about the upstairs at this point. Maybe even the bedroom, if she was reading this guy correctly. But whatever. The customer was always right, especially when he looked like this one did.

She left her briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened the basement door, and led him down the old wooden stairs.

“You can see it’s nice and dry. The wiring’s been redone, and the washer and dryer are only a couple of years old.”

He walked around, nodding approvingly. “I could get a lot of work done down here. Plenty of privacy, too.”

Suddenly, he took a step toward her, and she backed into the washing machine.

If there had been any doubt about where this was headed, it was gone now. Lisa tossed her hair. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”

“Of course I do – just not quite yet. You mind, Lisa?”

“No, I guess not.”

When she went to kiss him, he reached between her legs at the same moment, right up her skirt. It was a little presumptuous – and a little hot, too.

“It’s been a while,” he told her apologetically.

“I can tell,” she said, and pulled him closer.

Then, before they ever got to the paperwork still waiting on the kitchen counter upstairs, Lisa Giametti got the fuck of her life, right there on the two-year-old Maytag washer. It was hot, and dirty, and quite wonderful.

And the 12 percent commission was very nice, too.

THE FEDS DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Metro Police didn’t know shit either. All anyone knew was that Washington was becoming one very hot and scary place to live.

Denny ate up the headlines – page A01 every morning, lead story every night at five, six, and eleven. He and Mitch sold their papers in the afternoon, then caught the evening news at Best Buy or, if they had a few extra bucks, at one of the watering holes that didn’t mind a couple of dusty guys like them sitting at the bar.

It was always the same story: unknown assailant, phantom fingerprint, and very high-grade weaponry. A few channels were throwing around rumors about a Buick Skylark with New York plates, and a supposedly dark-blue or black rusted-out Suburban – which would have worried Denny a lot more if his own Suburban wasn’t white. Even eyewitnesses were going south these days, just like everything else in the republic.

For Mitch’s part, he liked the hoopla well enough, but as the days slipped by, he seemed to get a little more sluggish, a little less engaged. There was no doubt about it in Denny’s mind: these “missions” were the thing that kept Mitch focused. Nothing else did it for the big guy.