Patterson, James - Alex Cross 14 - Cross Country

“Karavi,” she said. She had beautiful long hair and scared dark eyes, and I thought she might be East Indian. She looked to be early twenties at most.

“Karavi, did you get a look at the people who did this?”

“Just one man,” she whimpered to me. “He was huge.”

“Excuse me, sir,” one of the others interrupted, “but we need to speak with our lawyers before we say anything to police.” The speaker had an air of privilege about him; these twenty-somethings spent their Saturday nights in private boxes at a private club.

“You can talk to me,” I said to the girl.

“Nonetheless, sir-”

“Or,” I interrupted, “we can do this later tonight and tomorrow. After I'm done here with all of the others.”

“It's all right, Freddy,” Karavi said, waving off the boy. “I want to help if I possibly can. Daniel is dead.”

We sat off to the side for a little privacy, and Karavi told me she was a grad student in cell biology at Georgetown. Both her parents were in the diplomatic corps, which was how she knew Daniel Njoku. They had been best friends but were never a couple. Daniel's girlfriend, Bari Nederman, had been shot tonight too, but she was alive.

Karavi described the gunman as a lone black man, maybe six six, at least that tall, wearing dark street clothes. “And he just looked… strong,” she said. “He had huge, muscular arms. Everything about him was powerful.”

“How about his voice? Did he speak to anyone? Before he started to shoot?”

Karavi nodded. “I heard him say something like 'I have an invitation' just before he…” She trailed off, not able to finish the thought.

“What kind of accent?” I asked. “American? Something else?” I was pushing because I knew I'd never get a better, truer account than right now.

“He wasn't from here,” she said. “Not American, I'm certain of that.”

“Nigerian? Did he sound like Daniel?”

“Maybe.” Her jaw clenched as she fought back the tears. “It's hard to think straight. I'm sorry.”

“Anyone else here Nigerian?” I turned back toward the others. “I need someone with a Nigerian accent.”

One of the boys spoke up. “I'm sorry, Officer, but there's no such thing,” He had a Jimi Hendrix 'fro and an open tuxedo shirt showing off his skinny chest and jewelry. “I speak Yoruban, for instance. There is also Igbo, and Hausa. And dozens of other languages. I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to suggest-”

“That's it!” Karavi put a shaking hand on my arm. I noticed a few of the others in the party were nodding too.

“That's how the killer sounded. Just like him.”

Cross Country

Chapter 23

I WAS STILL at the nightclub murder scene around two in the morning, conducting interviews that had begun to blend one into another, when the cell in my trousers pocket rang. I figured it might be the Nigerian embassy and answered it right away.

“Alex Cross, Metro,” I said.

“Dad?”

Damon's voice on my cell shocked me a little. At two in the morning, why wouldn't it? What was up now?

“Day, what's going on?” I asked my fourteen-year-old, who was away at school in Massachusetts.

“Uh… nothing really,” Damon said. I think my tone had taken him off guard. “I mean-I've been trying to call you all day. I've got some good news.”

I was relieved, but my pulse was still racing. “Okay, I need some good news. But what are you doing up so late?”

“I had to stay up. To catch you. I called home, talked to Nana. I didn't want to call you on your cell.”

I look in a slow breath and walked over to the hall by the bathrooms, away from the crime scene techs. No matter the time, it was always good to hear Damon's voice. I missed our talks, the boxing lessons I gave him, watching his basketball games. “What's your news? Let me hear it.”

“Nana already knows, but I wanted to tell you myself. I made the varsity. As a freshman. That's pretty good, right? Oh, and I got As on my midterms.”

“Listen to you-'Oh, and I got As.' Nice one-two, Damon. I guess you're doing pretty good up there,” I said, and suddenly I found myself smiling.

It was weird to be having this conversation under neon lights in a hallway that smelled of liquor and death, but it was still great news. Cushing Academy's sports and academic program had been a real draw for Damon. I knew how hard he'd been working to do well at both.

“Sir?” A uniform leaned her head into the hallway. “Nine-one-one dispatch for you?”

“Listen, Damon, can I call you later? Like in daylight, maybe?”

He laughed. “Sure, Dad. This is a big one, isn't it? Your case at that club. I saw you online.”

“It is a big one,” I admitted. “But it's still great to hear your voice. Any time. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I will. You get some sleep too.”

I hung up, feeling guilty. If this is what work meant-two a.m. conversations with my son-then I better make the work count. Dispatch relayed the call over to me, and I got the same woman from the Nigerian embassy as before. This time, though, her voice was thick with emotion.

“Detective, I'm sorry to tell you, but Ambassador and Mrs. Njoku were killed tonight. We're quite in shock.”

I didn't feel shocked, I felt sick. “When did it happen?” I asked her.

“We're not entirely sure. Within the past few hours, I believe.”

And within minutes of their son's murder? Had that been the plan all along? And whose plan? To what end? What was going on here?

I slid down against the wall until I rested on my haunches. Another family dead. And this time, the murder had crossed two continents-two completely different worlds. At least I thought so at the time.

Cross Country

Chapter 24

THE BIG HEAT was on all of us now. It took me all of the next day to locate the CIA's Eric Dana again, and then I found him only because he showed up at the Daly Building.

I caught Dana coming out of Chief Davies's office, and I saw the boss sitting inside before the door closed again. He wasn't smiling, and he didn't look up at me, though I was pretty sure he knew I was there.

I walked up to Dana. “Where have you been all day? I called at least half a dozen times. I need your help on this case. What's the problem?”

The CIA man didn't even break stride. "Talk to your CO. Metro is out of this. Chantilly was a disaster from our point of view. Our division head, Steven Millard, is involved at this point

Millard. I'd heard that name from my buddy Al Tunney. I caught up with Dana at the elevator and elbowed my way through the closing door. “Where is the killer?” I asked him. “What do you know about him?”

“We believe he's left the country. We'll let you know if he heads this way again,” the CIA man said, and he actually looked at me for the first time. “Stick to your own crime scenes, Cross. Do your job. I'll do mine.”

“Is that advice or a threat?” I asked Dana.

“As long as you're working in DC, it's advice. I have no control or influence over you here.”

His superior attitude was no surprise, and it didn't steam so much as focus me. I reached over and flipped the red toggle in the elevator. We jerked to a stop, and a warning bell went off.

“Where did he go, Dana?” I shouted. “Tell me where the hell he is!”

“What's the matter with you? This isn't how the game is played.”

When Dana reached for the switch, I grabbed his arm and held it.

“Where did he go?” I asked again. “This isn't a game to me.” Dana looked at me with hard eyes. He said, very evenly, “Let go of my arm, Cross. Get your hand the hell off me. He went back to Nigeria. The killer is out of your jurisdiction.”