Джеймс Паттерсон - Cross the Line

“Dad? Does that make sense?”

“I’ve never heard Einstein’s theory of relativity explained that way, and I honestly can’t tell you if it makes sense, but you certainly showed imagination coming up with that idea.”

Ali smiled and then chewed on his lip. “You think Neil deGrasse Tyson would know if that’s how dreams work? You know, at the speed of light and bending time?”

“I would imagine that if anyone knows, it would be Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“He’s not here,” Ali said. “At the Smithsonian, I mean.”

“No, he’s in New York. At the Natural History Museum, I believe.”

“Think I could call him up and ask him?”

I laughed. “You want to call Dr. Tyson up and tell him about your theory?”

“That’s right. Can I, Dad?”

“I don’t have his number.”

“Oh,” Ali said. “Who would?”

Jannie appeared in the doorway. “Dad, do you even have your shoes on?”

“They’re on, just not tied,” I said, giving Ali a nudge.

He got off my lap grudgingly and said, “Dad?”

“I’ll look into it and get back to you. Okay?”

Ali brightened, said, “I’m going to watch Origins until Nana Mama gets up to make breakfast.”

“An excellent idea.” I grunted and tied my shoes.

“Finally,” Jannie said when I walked out onto the front porch and found her stretching.

“Your brother had lots of questions.”

“As usual,” Jannie said, sounding slightly miffed. “Where does he come up with that stuff? Dreams and time and, I don’t know, the universe?”

“Those shows he watches,” I said, trying to stretch my hips and failing miserably. “And the Internet.”

“He’s the only kid I know who thinks like that,” she said.

“It’s a good thing.”

“I guess,” she said. “But it’s like guaranteed now he’s going to be a nerd.”

“Nerds rule the world these days, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Jannie thought about that, said, “Well, I guess it would be okay if my little brother grew up to rule the world.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Right.” She grinned. “Now, are we going to run or not?”

“To be honest, I would vote for not.”

“Do I need to remind you about the ten pounds you need to lose?”

“Ouch,” I said. “And it’s five.”

Jannie crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow skeptically.

“Okay, seven,” I said. “And let’s go before I decide to get doughnuts.”

Jannie turned, started to move, and became someone else. It was a very strange thing, I thought as she started to lope down the sidewalk with me puffing already. There was my daughter, Jannie, who had to struggle to sit still and succeed in school. And there was Jannie Cross, who ran so effortlessly.

She picked up her pace all the way to the end of the block and then glided back to me.

“Show-off,” I said.

“You’re breaking a sweat,” she said. “This is good.”

“How far are we going?” I asked.

“Three miles,” she said.

“Thank you for being merciful.”

“The idea is to make you want to show up again tomorrow.”

“Right,” I said without enthusiasm.

We ran past the Marine barracks and heard them doing PT. We ran past Chung Sun Chung’s convenience store, the best around. It was doing a brisk business, as usual. In the window, the Powerball sign said the pot was nearing fifty million dollars.

“Remind me to stop and get Nana Mama’s tickets on the way back,” I said.

“You ever won anything?”

“No.”

“Nana Mama?”

“Twice. Once ten thousand dollars and once twenty-five thousand.”

“When was that?”

“Before I went to college.”

“So a long time ago.”

“Paleolithic era,” I said.

“Must be why you run like a mastodon.”

She laughed and took off in a burst of speed, ran all the way to the end of the block, then jogged back to me again.

“Mastodon?” I said, trying to act offended.

“Saber-toothed tiger trying to get back in shape?”

“Much better.”

We ran on for several minutes before Jannie said, “So why were you and Bree fighting last night?”

“We weren’t fighting,” I said. “We were arguing.”

“Loud argument.”

“Passionate subject,” I said. “And Bree’s under a lot of pressure from the top brass to make something happen, something that shows the public that DC Metro is still on top of things.”

“Like what?” Jannie asked as we ran past the armory.

“Like clearing a major murder case. The Tommy McGrath murder case.”

“Are you close to making an arrest?”

“No, because the prime suspect shot himself yesterday.”

Jannie shook her head. “I don’t know how you deal with that kind of stuff.”

“Like anything, it takes practice.”

“So why did he shoot himself? Because you suspected him and he knew you were after him?”

“That’s what Bree thinks,” I said. “It’s also what Chief Michaels thinks.”

“But you don’t?”

I struggled with how much to tell her. “There are other explanations of why the suspect would want to commit suicide.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh.”

“And no more questions about that, okay?”

“Sure, Dad. I was just interested.”

“And I appreciate your interest in that and in getting me out of bed this morning.”

We ran to the National Arboretum, and on the way back, the running wasn’t half the torture I’d expected. When we passed Chung Sun Chung’s store, the line for lottery tickets was ten-deep, so I skipped it and we went home.

Nana Mama was up cooking scrambled eggs and bacon, and Ali was engrossed in Origins. I went upstairs; Bree was in the shower.

“Hey,” she said when I climbed in.

“Sorry we argued last night.”

Bree nodded, hugged me, and said, “I still think Howard did it, shot Tom, Edita, and then himself.”

“Or Howard shot himself because he had stage four lung cancer. Or he was telling you the truth about not owning a Remington 1911.”

“Or he was lying about it.”

“Or he was lying about it. Or he didn’t kill anyone, and someone associated with the Phoenix Club did. Truce until we know more?”

Bree hugged me tighter. “Being chief of detectives is hard.”

“I think you’re doing a great job.”

“Chief Michaels doesn’t think so.”

“Sure he does. He’s just getting heat from the mayor and the city council.”

“I am going to get through this, right?”

“ We are going to get through this.”

The ballistics report on the .45-caliber Remington 1911 that killed Terry Howard came back around ten fifteen that morning. It was the same pistol that had been used to kill Tom McGrath and Edita Kravic.

“Case closed?” Chief Michaels asked. “We can tell the media that?”

“Yes,” Bree said.

I said nothing.

The chief noticed, said, “Alex?”

“You might want to say there’s strong evidence that Howard did it, but there are still some loose ends to take care of before we put the file in boxes.”

“What loose ends?”

“The car used in McGrath’s murder. It wasn’t Howard’s. And I’d like to see a bill of sale saying Howard actually owned a Remington 1911. All records I’ve checked say he was a Smith and Wesson guy.”

Chief Michaels looked at Bree, said, “You’re confident?”

“Terry Howard hated Tom,” she said. “Howard had lost his job and had cancer. Tom was chief of detectives with a younger girlfriend. So Howard’s bitterness built into rage, and he shot Tom and Edita. Then he shot himself, figuring we’d eventually put two and two together.”