Cross

Chapter 1

"I'M PREGNANT, ALEX."

Everything about the night is so very clear to me. Still is, after all this time, all these years that have passed, everything that's happened, the horrible murderers, the homicides solved and sometimes not.

I stood in the darkened bedroom with my arms lightly circling my wife Maria's waist, my chin resting on her shoulder. I was thirty-one then, and had never been happier at any time of my life.

Nothing even came close to what we had together, Maria, Damon, Jannie, and me.

It was the fall of 1993, a million years ago it seems to me now.

It was also past two in the morning, and our baby Jannie had the croup something terrible. Poor sweet girl had been up for most of the night, most of the last few nights, most of her young life. Maria was gently rocking Jannie in her arms, humming "You Are So Beautiful," and I had my arms around Maria, rocking her.

I was the one who'd gotten up first, but I couldn't seem to get Jannie back to sleep no matter what tricks I tried. Maria had come in and taken the baby after an hour or so. We both had work early in the morning. I was on a murder case.

"You're pregnant?" I said against Maria's shoulder.

"Bad timing, huh, Alex? You see a lot more croup in your future? Binkies? More dirty diapers? Nights like this one?"

"I don't like this part so much. Being up late, or early, whatever this is. But I love our life, Maria. And I love that we're going to have another baby."

I held on to Maria and turned on the music from the mobile dangling over Janelle's crib. We danced in place to "Someone to Watch Over Me."

Then she gave me that beautiful partly bashful, partly goofy smile of hers, the one I'd fallen for, maybe on the very first night I ever saw her. We had met in the emergency room at St. Anthony's, during an emergency. Maria had brought in a gangbanger, a gunshot victim, a client of hers. She was a dedicated social worker, and she was being protective – especially since I was a dreaded metro homicide detective, and she didn't exactly trust the police. Then again, neither did I.

I held Maria a little tighter. "I'm happy. You know that. I'm glad you're pregnant. Let's celebrate. I'll get some champagne."

"You like being the big daddy, huh?"

"I do. Don't know why exactly. I just do."

"You like screaming babies in the middle of the night?"

"This too shall pass. Isn't that right, Janelle? Young lady, I'm talking to you."

Maria turned her head away from the wailing baby and gave me a sweet kiss on the lips. Her mouth was soft, always inviting, always sexy. I loved her kisses – anytime, anywhere.

She finally wriggled out of my arms. "Go back to bed, Alex. No sense both of us being up. Get some sleep for me too."

Just then, I noticed something else in the bedroom, and I started to laugh, couldn't help myself.

"What's so funny?" Maria smiled.

I pointed, and she saw it too. Three apples – each one with a single childlike bite out of it. The apples were propped on the legs of three stuffed toys, different-colored Barney dinosaurs. Toddler Damon's fantasy play was revealed to us. Our little boy had been spending some time in his sister Jannie's room.

As I got to the doorway, Maria gave me that goofy smile of hers again. And a wink. She whispered – and I will never forget what she said- "I love you, Alex. No one will ever love you the way I do."

Chapter 2

FORTY MILES NORTH OF DC, in Baltimore, two cocksure long-haired hit men in their mid to late twenties ignored the Members Only sign and sashayed into the St. Francis Social Club on South High Street, not far from the harbor. Both men were heavily armed and smiling like a couple of stand-up comedians.

There were twenty-seven capos and soldiers in the club room that night, playing cards, drinking grappa and espresso, watching the Bullets lose to the Knicks on TV Suddenly the room was quiet and on edge.

Nobody just walked into St. Francis of Assisi, especially not uninvited and armed.

One of the intruders in the doorway, a man named Michael Sullivan, calmly saluted the group. This was some funny shit, Sullivan was thinking to himself. All these goom-bah tough guys sitting around chewing their cud. His companion, or compare, Jimmy "Hats" Galati, glanced around the room from under the brim of a beat-up black fedora, like the one worn by Squiggy on Laverne Shirley. The social club was pretty typical – straight chairs, card tables, makeshift bar, guineas coming out of the woodwork.

"No welcoming committee for us? No brass bands?" asked Sullivan, who lived for confrontation of any kind, verbal or physical. It had always been him and Jimmy Hats against everybody else, ever since they were fifteen and ran away from their homes in Brooklyn.

"Who the hell are you?" asked a foot soldier, who rose like steam from one of the rickety card tables. He was maybe six two, with jet-black hair, and weighed 220 or so, obviously worked out with weights.

"He's the Butcher of Sligo. Ever hear of him?" said Jimmy Hats. "We're from New York City. Ever hear of New York City?"

Chapter 3

THE BUFFED-UP MOB SOLDIER didn't react, but an older man in a black suit and white shirt buttoned to the collar raised his hand like the pope or something and spoke slowly and deliberately in heavily accented English. "To what do we owe this honor?" he asked. "Of course we've heard of the Butcher. Why are you here in Baltimore? What can we do for you?"

"We're just passing through," Michael Sullivan said to the old man. "Have to do a little job for Mr. Maggione in DC. You gentlemen heard of Mr. Maggione?"

Heads nodded around the room. The tenor of the conversation so far suggested that this was definitely serious business. Dominic Maggione controlled the Family in New York, which ran most of the East Coast, down as far as Atlanta anyway.

Everybody in the room knew who Dominic Maggione was and that the Butcher was his most ruthless hit man. Supposedly, he used butcher knives, scalpels, and mallets on his victims. A reporter in Newsday had said of one of his murders, "No human being could have done this." The Butcher was feared in mob circles and by the police. So it was a surprise to those in the room that the killer was so young and that he looked like a movie actor, with his long blond hair and striking blue eyes.

"So where's the respect? I hear that word a lot, but I don't see any in this club," said Jimmy Hats, who, like the Butcher, had a reputation for amputating hands and feet.

The soldier who had stood up suddenly made his move, and the Butcher's arm shot forward in a blur. He sliced off the tip of the man's nose, then the lobe of an ear. The soldier grabbed at his face in two places and stepped back so fast he lost his balance and fell hard on the wood-plank floor.

The Butcher was fast, and obviously as good as promised with a knife. He was like the old-time assassins from Sicily, and that's how he had learned knife play, from one of the old soldiers in South Brooklyn. Amputation and bone-crunching had come easily to him. He considered them his trademark, symbols of his ruthlessness.

Jimmy Hats had a gun out, a.45 caliber semiautomatic. Hats was also known as "Jimmy the Protector," and he had the Butcher's back. Always.

Now Michael Sullivan slowly walked around the room. He kicked over a couple of card tables, shut off the TV, and pulled the plug on the espresso machine. Everyone suspected that somebody was going to die. But why? Why had Dominic Maggione unleashed this madman on them?

"I see some of you are expecting a little show," he said. "I see it in your eyes. I smell it. Well, hell, I don't want to disappoint anybody."

Suddenly, Sullivan went down on one knee and stabbed the wounded mob soldier where he lay on the floor. He stabbed the man in the throat, then in the face and chest until there was no movement in the body. It was hard to count the strokes, but it must have been a dozen, probably more.

Then the strangest thing of all. Sullivan stood up and took a bow over the dead man's body. As if this was all a big show to him, all just an act.

Finally, the Butcher turned his back on the room and walked unconcerned toward the door. No fear of anything or anyone. He called over his shoulder, "Nice meetin' you, gentlemen. Next time, show some respect. For Mr. Maggione – if not for myself and Mr. Jimmy Hats."

Jimmy Hats grinned at the room and tipped his fedora. "Yeah, he's that good," he said. "Tell you what, he's even better with a chain saw."

Chapter 4

THE BUTCHER AND JIMMY HATS laughed their asses off about the St. Francis of Assisi Social Club visit for most of the ride down I-95 to Washington, where they had a tricky job to do in the next day or two. Mr. Maggione had ordered them to stop in Baltimore and make an impression. The don suspected that a couple of the local capos were skimming on him. The Butcher figured he'd done his job.

That was a part of his growing reputation: not just that he was good at killing, but that he was reliable as a heart attack for a fat man eating fried eggs and bacon.

They were entering DC, taking the scenic route past the Washington Monument and other important la-di-da buildings. "My country 'tis of V," sang Jimmy Hats in a seriously off-key voice.

Sullivan snorted out a laugh. "You're a corker yourself, James m'boy Where the hell did you learn that? My country 'tis of V?"

"St. Patrick's parish school, Brooklyn, New York, where I learned everything I know about the three Rs – readin', ritin', 'rithmetic – an' where I met this crazy bastard named Michael Sean Sullivan."

Twenty minutes later they had parked the Grand Am and joined the late-night youth parade traipsing along M Street in Georgetown. Bunch of mopey-dopey college punks, plus him and Jimmy, a couple of brilliant professional killers, thought Sullivan. So who was doing better in life? Who was making it, and who wasn't?

"Ever think you shoulda gone to college?" asked Hats.

"Couldn't afford the cut in pay. Eighteen, I was already making seventy-five grand. Besides, I love my job!"

They stopped at Charlie Malone's, a local watering hole popular with the Washington college crowd for no good reason Sullivan could figure. Neither the Butcher nor Jimmy Hats had gone past high school, but inside the bar, Sullivan struck up an easy conversation with a couple of coeds, no more than twenty years old, probably still in their late teens. Sullivan read a lot, and remembered most of it, so he could talk with just about anybody. His repertoire tonight included the recent shootings of American soldiers in Somalia, a couple hot new movies, even some Romantic poetry – Blake and Keats, which seemed to appeal to the college ladies.

In addition to his charm, though, Michael Sullivan was a looker, and he knew it – slim but nicely toned, six one, longish blond hair, a smile that could dazzle anybody he chose to use it on.

So it was no major surprise when twenty-year-old Marianne Riley from Burkittsville, Maryland, started making none-too-subtle goo-goo eyes at him and touching him in the way forward girls sometimes do.

Sullivan leaned in close to the girl, who smelled like wild-flowers. "Marianne, Marianne… there used to be a song. Calypso tune? You know it? 'Marianne, Marianne'?"

"Before my time," the girl said, but then she winked at him. She had the most gorgeous green eyes, full red lips, and the cutest little plaid bow planted in her hair. Sullivan had decided one thing about her right away – Marianne was a little cock tease, and that was all right with him. He liked to play games too.

"I see. And Mr. Keats, Mr. Blake, Mr. Byron, weren't they before your time?" he kidded her, with his endearing smile turned on bright. Then he took Marianne's hand, and he lightly kissed it. He pulled her away from her barstool and did a tight Lindy twirl to the Stones song playing on the jukebox.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "Where do you think we're going, mister?"

"Not too far," said Michael Sullivan. "Miss."

"Not too far?" questioned Marianne. "What does that mean?"

"You'll see. No worries. Trust me."

She laughed, pecked him on the cheek, and laughed some more. "Now how could I resist those killer eyes of yours?"

Chapter 5

MARIANNE WAS THINKING that she didn't really want to resist this cute guy from New York City. Besides, she was safe inside the bar on M Street. What could go wrong in here? What could anybody try to pull? Play a New Kids on the Block tune on the jukebox?

"I don't much like the spotlight," he was saying, leading her toward the back of the bar.

"You think you're another Tom Cruise, don't you? Does that big smile of yours always work? Get you what you want?" she asked.

She was smiling too, though, daring him to bring his best moves.

"I don't know, M.M. Sometimes it works okay, I guess."

Then he kissed her in the semidarkened hallway at the back of the bar, and the kiss was as good as Marianne could have hoped, kind of sweet actually. Definitely more on the romantic side than she'd expected. He didn't try to cop a feel along with the kiss, which might have been all right with her, but this was better.

" Whooo." She exhaled and waved a hand in front of her face like a fan. It was a joke, only not totally a joke.

"It is a little hot in here, isn't it?" Sullivan said, and the coed's smile blossomed again. "A little close, don't you think?"

"Sorry – I'm not leaving with you. This isn't even a date."

"I understand," he said. "Never thought you would leave with me. Never crossed my mind."

"Of course not. You're too much of a gentleman."

He kissed her again, and the kiss was deeper. Marianne liked that he didn't give up too easily. It didn't matter, though – she wasn't going anywhere with him. She didn't do that, not ever – well, not so far anyway

"You are a pretty good kisser," she said. "I'll give you that."

"You're holding up your end," he said. "You're a great kisser actually. That was the best kiss of my life," he kidded.

Sullivan pushed his weight against a door – and suddenly they were stumbling inside the men's room. Then Jimmy Hats stepped up to watch the door from the outside. He always had the Butcher's back.

"No, no, no," Marianne said, but she couldn't keep from laughing at what had just happened. The men's room? This was pretty funny. Crazy funny – but funny. The kind of stuff college kids did.

"You really think you can get away with anything, don't you?" she asked him.

"The answer is yes. I pretty much do what 1 want, Marianne."

And suddenly he had a scalpel out, the gleaming razor-sharp blade not far from her throat, and everything changed in a heartbeat. "And you're right, this isn't a date. Now don't say a word, Marianne, or it will be your last on this earth, I swear on my mother's eyes."

Chapter 6

"THERE'S ALREADY BLOOD on this scalpel," the Butcher said in a throaty whisper meant to scare her out of her wits. "You see it?"

Then he touched his jeans at the crotch. "Now this blade won't hurt so much." He brandished the scalpel in front of her eyes. "But this one will hurt a lot. Disfigure your pretty face for life. I'm not kidding around, college girl."

He unzipped his jeans and pressed the scalpel against Marianne Riley's throat – but he didn't cut her. He lifted up her skirt, then pulled aside her blue panties.

He said, "I don't want to cut you. You can tell that, can't you?"

She could barely speak. "I don't know."

"You have my word on it, Marianne."

Then he pushed himself inside the college girl slowly, so as not to hurt her with a thrust. He knew he shouldn't spend a lot of time here, but he didn't want to give up her tight insides. Hell, I'll never see Marianne, Marianne after tonight.

At least she was smart enough not to scream or try to fight him with her knees or nails. When he was finished with his business he showed her a couple of photographs he carried around. Just to be sure she understood her situation, understood it perfectly.

"1 took these pictures myself. Look at the pictures, Marianne. Now, you must never speak of tonight. Not to anyone, but especially not to the police. You understand?"

She nodded without looking at him.

"I need you to speak the words, little girl. I need you to look at me, painful as that might be."

"Understood," she said. "I'll never tell anybody."

"Look at me."

Her eyes met his, and the change in her was amazing. He saw fear and hatred, and it was something he enjoyed. It was a long story why, a growing-up-in-Brooklyn story, a father-and-son tale that he preferred to keep to himself.

"Good girl. Strange to say – I like you. What I mean is, I have affection for you. Good-bye, Marianne, Marianne."

Before leaving the bathroom, he searched through her purse and took her wallet. "Insurance," he said. "Don't talk to anybody."

Then the Butcher opened the door and left. Marianne Riley let herself collapse to the bathroom floor, shaking all over. She would never forget what had just happened – especially those horrifying photographs.

Chapter 7

"WHO'S UP SO EARLY in the morning? Well, my goodness, look who it is. Do I see Damon Cross? Do I spy Janelle Cross?"

Nana Mama arrived promptly at six thirty to look after the kids, as she did every weekday morning. When she burst through the kitchen door, I was spoon-feeding oatmeal to Damon, while Maria burped Jannie. Jannie was crying again, poor little sick girl.

"Same children who were up in the middle of the night," I told my grandmother as I aimed a brimming spoon of gruel in the general direction of Damon's twisting mouth.

"Damon can do that himself," Nana said, huffing as she put down her bundle on the kitchen counter.

It looked as if she had brought hot biscuits and – could it possibly be? – homemade peach jam. Plus her usual assortment of books for the day. Blueberries for Sal, The Gift of the Magi, Goodnight Moon.

I said to Damon, "Nana says you can feed yourself, buddy. You holding out on me?"

"Damon, take your spoon," she said.

And, of course, he did. Nobody goes up against Nana Mama.

"Curse you," I said to her, and took a biscuit. Praise the Lord, a hot biscuit! Then came a slow, delicious taste of heaven on this earth. "Bless you, old woman. Bless you."

Maria said, "Alex doesn't listen too well these days, Nana. He's too busy with his ongoing murder investigations. I told him that Damon is feeding himself. Most of the time anyway. When he's not feeding the walls and ceiling."

Nana nodded. "Feeding himself all of the time. Unless the boy wants to go hungry. You want to go hungry, Damon? No, of course you don't, baby."

Maria began to gather together her papers for the day. Last night she'd still been laboring in the kitchen after midnight. She was a social worker for the city, with a caseload from hell. She grabbed a violet scarf off the hook by the back door, along with her favorite hat, to go with the rest of her outfit, which was predominantly black and blue.

"I love you, Damon Cross." She flew over and kissed our boy. "I love you, Jannie Cross. Even after last night." She kissed Jannie a couple of times on both cheeks.

And then she grabbed hold of Nana and kissed her. "And I love you."

Nana beamed as if she'd just been introduced to Jesus himself, or maybe Mary. "I love you too, Maria. You're a miracle."

"I'm not here," I said from my listening post at the kitchen door.

"Oh, we already know that," said Nana.

Before I could leave for work, I had to kiss and hug everybody too, and say "I love you's." Corny maybe, but good in its way, and a pox on anybody who thinks that busy, scarily harassed families can't have fun and love. We certainly had plenty of that.

"Bye, we love you, bye, we love you," Maria and I chorused as we backed out the door together.

Chapter 8

JUST AS I DID EVERY MORNING, I drove Maria to her job in the Potomac Gardens housing project. It was only about fifteen or twenty minutes from Fourth Street anyway, and it gave us some alone time.

We rode in the black Porsche, the last evidence of some money I'd made during three years of private practice as a psychologist, before I switched full-time into the DC police department. Maria had a white Toyota Corolla, which I didn't much like, but she did.

It seemed as though she was someplace else as we rode along G Street that morning.

"You okay?" I asked.

She laughed and gave me that wink of hers.

"Little tired. I'm feeling pretty good, considering. I was just thinking about a case I consulted on yesterday, favor to Maria Pugatch. It involves a college girl from GW University. She was raped in a men's bathroom in a bar on M Street."

I frowned and shook my head. "Another college kid involved?"

"She says no, but she won't say much else."

My eyebrows arched. "So she probably knew the rapist? Maybe a professor?"

"The girl definitely says no, Alex. She swears it's no one she knows."

"You believe her?"

"I think I do. Of course, I'm trusting and gullible anyway. She seems like such a sweet kid."

I didn't want to stick my nose too far into Maria's business. We didn't do that to each other – at least we tried hard not to.

"Anything you want me to do?" I asked.

Maria shook her head. "You're busy. I'm going to talk to the girl – Marianne – again today. Hopefully I can get her to open up a little."

A couple minutes later, I pulled up in front of the Potomac Gardens housing project on G, between Thirteenth and Penn. Maria had volunteered to come here, left a much cushier and secure job in Georgetown. I think she volunteered because she lived in the Gardens until she was eighteen, when she went off to Villanova.

"Kiss," Maria said. "I need a kiss. Good one. No pecks on the cheek. On the lips."

I leaned over and kissed her – and then I kissed her again. We made out a little in the front seat, and I couldn't help thinking about how much I loved her, about how lucky I was to have her. What made it even better: I knew that Maria felt the same way about me.

"Gotta go," she finally said, and wriggled out of the car.

But then she leaned back inside. "I may not look it, but I'm happy. I'm so happy."

Then that little wink of hers again.

I watched Maria walk all the way up the steep stone stairs of the apartment building where she worked. I hated to see her go, and it was the same thing just about every morning.

I wondered if she'd turn and see if I'd left yet. Then she did – saw me still there, smiled and waved like a crazy person, or at least somebody crazy in love. Then she disappeared inside.

We did the same thing almost every morning, but I couldn't get enough of it. Especially that wink of Maria's. No one will ever love you the way I do.

I didn't doubt it for a minute.

Chapter 9

I WAS A PRETTY HOT DETECTIVE in those days – on the run, on the move, in the know. So I was already starting to get more than my fair share of the tougher prestige cases. The latest wasn't one of them, unfortunately.

As far as the Washington PD could tell, the Italian Mafia had never operated in any major way inside DC, probably because of deals struck with certain agencies like the FBI and CIA. Recently, though, the five Families had met in New York and agreed to do business in Washington, Baltimore, and parts of Virginia. Not surprisingly the local crime bosses hadn't been too thrilled about this development, especially the Asians who controlled the cocaine and heroin trade.

A Chinese drug overlord named Jiang An-Lo had executed two Italian mob emissaries a week before. Not a good move. And reportedly the New York mob had dispatched a top hit man, or possibly a hit team, to deal with Jiang.

I'd learned that much during an hour-long morning briefing at police headquarters. Now John Sampson and I drove to Jiang An-Lo's place of business, a duplex row house on the corner of Eighteenth and M Streets in Northeast. We were one of two teams of detectives assigned to the morning surveillance, which we dubbed "Operation Scumwatch."

We had parked between Nineteenth and Twentieth and begun our surveillance. Jiang An-Lo's row house was faded, peeling yellow, and looked decrepit from the outside. The dirt yard was littered with trash that looked as if it had burst from a pinata. Most of the windows were covered with plywood or tin. Yet Jiang An-Lo was a big deal in the drug trade.

The day was already turning warm, and a lot of neighborhood people were out walking or congregating on stoops.

"Jiang's crew is into what? Ecstasy, heroin?" Sampson asked.

"Throw in some PCP. Distribution runs up and down the East Coast – DC, Philly, Atlanta, New York. It's been a profitable operation, which is why the Italians want in. What do you think of Louis French's appointment at the Bureau?"

"Don't know the man. He got appointed though, so he must be wrong for the job."

I laughed at the truth in Sampson's humor; then we hunkered down and waited for a team of Mafia hitters to show up and try to take out Jiang An-Lo. That was if our information was accurate.

"We know anything about the hit man?" Sampson asked.

"Supposed to be an Irish guy," I said, and looked over at John for a reaction.

Sampson's eyebrows arched; then he turned my way. "Working for the Mafia? How'd that happen?"

"Guy is supposed to be good. And crazy too. They call him the Butcher."

Meanwhile, an old, bowed-down guy had begun to cross M Street with deliberate glances left and right. He was slowly dragging on a cigarette. He crossed paths with a skinny white guy who had an aluminum cane cuffed at the elbow. The two stragglers nodded solemn hellos in the middle of the street.

"Couple of characters there," Sampson said, and smiled. "That'll be us someday."

"Maybe. If we're lucky."

And then Jiang An-Lo chose to make his first appearance of the day.

Chapter 10

JIANG WAS TALL and looked almost emaciated. He had a scraggly black goatee that hung a good six inches below his chinny-chin-chin.

The drug lord had a reputation for being shrewd, competitive, and vicious, often unnecessarily so, as if this was all a big, dangerous game to him. He'd grown up on the streets of Shanghai, then moved to Hong Kong, then Baghdad, and finally to Washington, where he ruled several neighborhoods like a new-world Chinese warlord.

My eyes shifted around M Street, searching for signs of trouble. Jiang's two bodyguards seemed on the alert, and I wondered if he'd been warned – and if so, by whom? Someone on his payroll in the police department? It was definitely possible.

I was also wondering how good this Irish killer was.

"Bodyguards spot us yet?" Sampson said.

"I expect they have, John. We're here as a deterrent more than anything else."

"Hit man spot us too?"

"If he's here. If he's any good. If there is a hit man, he's probably seen us too."

When Jiang An-Lo was about halfway to a shiny black Mercedes parked on the street, another car, a Buick LeSabre, turned on to M. It accelerated, the engine roaring, tires squealing as they burned against the pavement.

Jiang's bodyguards spun around toward the speeding car. They both had their guns out. Sampson and I shoved open the side doors of our car. "Deterrent my ass," he grumbled.

Jiang hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he took long, gangly strides, almost as if he was trying to run wearing a full-length skirt, heading back toward the row house he'd just come out of. He would have correctly figured he'd still be in danger if he kept going and reached the Mercedes.

Everybody had it wrong though. Jiang, the bodyguards, Sampson and I.

The shots came from behind the drug dealer, from the opposite direction on the street.

Three loud cracks from a long gun.

Jiang went down and stayed there on the sidewalk, not moving at all. Blood poured from the side of his head as if there were a spout there. I doubted he was alive.

I spun around and looked toward the rooftop of a brown-stone connected to more roofs lining the other side of M.

I saw a blond man, and he did the strangest thing: He bowed in our direction. I couldn't believe what he'd just done. Taken a bow?

Then he ducked behind a brick parapet and completely disappeared from sight.

Sampson and I sprinted across M and entered the building. We raced upstairs, four flights in a hurry. When we got to the roof, the shooter was gone. No one in sight anywhere.

Had it been the Irish hitter? The Butcher? The mob hit man sent from New York?

Who the hell else could it have been?

I still couldn't believe what I'd seen. Not just that he'd gotten Jiang An-Lo so easily. But that he'd taken a bow after his performance.

Chapter 11

THE BUTCHER FOUND IT EASY to blend in with the hot-shit college students on the campus of George Washington University. He was dressed in jeans and a gray, rumpled tee that said "Athletic Department," and he carried around a beat-up Isaac Asimov novel. He spent the morning reading Foundation on various benches, checking out the coeds, but mostly tracking Marianne, Marianne. Okay, he was a little obsessive. Least of his problems.

He did like the girl and had been watching her for twenty-four hours now, which was how she came to break his heart. She'd gone and shot her mouth off. He knew it for sure because he'd heard her talking to her best friend, Cindi, about a "counselor" she'd spoken to a few days before. Then she'd gone back for a second "counseling" session, against his explicit order and warning.

Mistake, Marianne.

After her noon class in hoity-toity eighteenth-century British literature, Marianne, Marianne left the campus, and he followed her in a group of at least twenty students. He could tell right away that she was headed to her apartment. Good deal.

Maybe she was done for the day, or maybe she had a long break between classes. Didn't matter either way. She'd broken the rules, and she had to be dealt with.

Once he knew where she was going, he decided to beat her there. As a senior, she was allowed to live off campus, and she shared a small two-bedroom off of Thirty-ninth Street on Davis with young Cindi. The place was a fourth-floor walk-up, and he had no trouble getting inside. The front door had a key lock. What a joke that was.

He decided to get comfortable while he waited, so he stripped down, took off his shoes and all his clothes. Truth was, he didn't want to get blood on his duds.

Then he waited for the girl, read some more of his book, hung out. As soon as Marianne walked inside her bedroom, the Butcher wrapped both arms around her and placed the scalpel under her chin.

"Hello, Marianne, Marianne," he whispered. "Didn't I tell you not to talk?"

"1 didn't tell anyone," she said. "Please."

"You're lying. I told you what was going to happen. Hell, I even showed you."

"I didn't tell. I promise."

"I made a promise too, Marianne. Made it on my mother's eyes."

Suddenly he sliced left to right across the college girl's throat. Then he cut her again, going the other way.

While she writhed on the floor, choking to death, he took some photos.

Prizewinners, no doubt about it. He didn't ever want to forget Marianne, Marianne.

Chapter 12

THE NEXT NIGHT the Butcher was still in DC. He knew exactly what Jimmy Hats was thinking, but Jimmy was too much of a coward and a survivor to ask, Do you have any idea what the hell you're doing now? Or why we're still in Washington?

Well, as a matter of fact, he did. He was driving a stolen Chevy Caprice with tinted windows through the section of DC known as Southeast, searching out a particular house, getting ready to kill again, and it was all because of Marianne, Marianne and her big mouth.

He had the address in his head and figured he was getting close now. He had one more hit to take care of, then he and Jimmy could finally blow out of Washington. Case closed.

"Streets around here remind me of back home," Jimmy Hats piped up from the passenger seat. He was trying to sound casual and unconcerned about their hanging around DC so long after the shooting of the Chinaman.

"Why's that?" asked the Butcher, his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. He knew what Jimmy was going to say. He almost always did. Truth be told, Jimmy Hats's predictability was a comfort to him most of the time.

"Everything's fallin' to shit, y'know, right before our eyes. Just like in Brooklyn. And there's your reason why. See the shines hanging out on every other street corner? Who the hell else is gonna live here? Live like that?"

Michael Sullivan smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. Hats could be moronic and irritating at times. "Politicians wanted to, they could fix this whole mess. Wouldn't be so hard, Jimmy."

"Aw, Mikey you're such a bleedin' heart. Maybe you should run for political office." Jimmy Hats shook his head and turned to face the side window. He knew not to push it too far.

"And you're not wondering what the hell we're doing here? You're not thinking that I'm crazier than the last of the Coney Island shithouse rats? Maybe you want to jump out of the car. Head over to Union Station, hop a train back to New York, Jimmy my boy."

The Butcher was smiling when he said it, so Hats knew it was probably okay for him to laugh too. Probably. But in the past year he'd seen Sullivan kill two of their "friends," one with a baseball bat, one with a plumber's wrench. You had to be careful at all times.

"So what are we doing here?" Hats asked. "Since we should be back in New York."

The Butcher shrugged. "I'm looking for a cop's house."

Hats shut his eyes. "Aw, Jeezus. Not a cop. Why a cop?" Then he pulled his fedora down over his face. "See no evil," he muttered.

The Butcher shrugged, but he was amused. "Just trust me. Did I ever let you down? Did I ever go too far over the top?"

They both started to laugh at that one. Did Michael Sullivan ever go too far over the top? Did he ever not go too far over the top was the better question.

It took another twenty minutes to find the house he was looking for. It was a two-story A-frame, looked as if it had been painted recently, flowers in the window boxes.

"Cop lives here? Not too bad a place actually. He fixed it up okay."

"Yeah, Jimmy. But I'm tempted to waltz in and create a little havoc. Maybe use my saw. Take some photographs."

Hats winced. "Is that such a good idea? Really, I'm bein' serious here."

The Butcher shrugged. "I know you are. I can see that, James. I feel the heat from your brain working overtime."

"Cop have a name?" asked Hats. "Not that it matters."

"Not that it matters. Cop's name is Alex Cross."

Chapter 13

THE BUTCHER PARKED a block or so up Fourth Street; then he got out of the car and walked quickly back toward the cozy house where the cop had the bottom-floor flat. Getting the correct address had been easy enough for him. The Mafia had ties with the Bureau, after all. He loped around the side, trying not to be seen, but not concerned if he was. People in these neighborhoods didn't talk about what they saw.

This job was going to happen fast now. In and out of the house in a few seconds. Then back to Brooklyn to celebrate his latest hit and get paid for it.

He stepped through a thick patch of pachysandra surrounding the back porch, then boosted himself up. He walked right in through the kitchen door, which whined like a hurt animal.

No problem so far. He was inside the place easy enough. He figured the rest would be a snap too.

Nobody in the kitchen.

Nobody home?

Then he heard a baby crying and took out his Beretta. He fingered the scalpel in his left-hand pocket.

This was a promising development. Babies in the house made everybody careless. He'd killed guys like this before, in Brooklyn and in Queens. One mob stoolie he'd cut into little pieces in his own kitchen, then stocked the family fridge to send a message.

He passed down a short hall, moving like a shadow. Didn't make a sound.

Then he peeked into the small living room, family room, whatever the hell it was.

This wasn't exactly what he'd expected to see. Tall, good-looking man changing diapers for two little kids. The guy seemed to be pretty good at it too. Sullivan knew because years ago he'd been in charge of his three snot-nosed brothers in Brooklyn. Changed a lot of stinking diapers in his day.

"You the lady of the house?" he asked.

The guy looked up – Detective Alex Cross – and he didn't seem afraid of him. Didn't even seem surprised that the Butcher was in the house, even though he had to be shocked, and probably scared. So the cop had some brass balls on him anyway. Unarmed, changing his kids' diapers, but showing some attitude, some real character.

"Who are you?" Detective Cross asked, almost as if he was in charge of the situation.

The Butcher folded his arms, keeping the pistol out of sight from the children. Hell, he liked kids okay. It was adults he had a problem with. Like his old man – to take one flagrant example.

"You don't know why I'm here? No idea?"

"Maybe I do. I guess you're the hit man from the other day. But why are you here? At my house? This isn't right."

Sullivan shrugged. "Right? Wrong? Who's to say? I'm supposed to be a little crazy. So people tell me anyway. That could be it. You think? They call me the Butcher."

Cross nodded. "So I've heard. Don't hurt my kids. No one else is here but me. Their mother's not home."

"Now why would I do that? Hurt your kids? Hurt you in front of your kids? Not my style. Tell you what. I'm outta here. Like I said – crazy. You lucked out. Bye-bye, kiddies."

Then the hit man took another bow, like he had after he shot down Jiang An-Lo.

The Butcher turned away, and he left the apartment the way he came in. Let the hotshot detective try to figure that one out. There was a method to his madness though – always a method to every move he made. He knew what he was doing, and why, and when.

Chapter 14

THAT NIGHT WITH THE BUTCHER shook me more than anything that had happened to me before as a policeman. A killer inside my house. Right in the living room with my kids.

And what was I supposed to make of it? That I'd been warned? That I was lucky to be alive? Oh, lucky me? The killer had spared my family. But why had he come after me in the first place?

The next day was one of my worst on the police force. While a squad car watched over the house, I was called into three separate meetings about the screwup at Jiang An-Lo's. There was talk of a departmental review, the first I'd been involved in.

On account of all the unscheduled meetings, plus the extra paperwork and my regular workload, I was late picking up Maria at Potomac Gardens that night. I felt guilty about it.

I hadn't gotten used to her spending time inside a project like Potomac Gardens, especially once it got dark. It was dark now. And Maria was pregnant again.

It was a little past seven fifteen when I got to the projects that night. Maria wasn't waiting out front as she usually was.

I parked and got out of the car. I started to walk toward her office, which was located near maintenance, on the ground floor. Finally, I began to jog.

Then I saw Maria coming out the front door, and everything was suddenly right with the night. Her satchel was filled with so much paperwork that she couldn't get it closed. She had an armful of folders that wouldn't fit in the bag.

She still managed to wave and smile when she saw me coming her way There was almost never anger from her over mistakes I made – like being more than half an hour late to pick her up.

I didn't care how corny or old-fashioned it was, but I was excited to see her, and that's the way it always was with us. My priorities had shifted to Maria and our family first and then my job. It felt good to me, the right balance.

Maria had this excited way of calling out my name. "Alex! Alex!" she shouted, and waved one hand as I jogged to meet her in front of the building. A couple of neighborhood gang-bangers leaning on the front fence turned our way and got a laugh at our expense.

"Hey, beautiful," I called. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem. I was working too. Hey, Reu-ben! You jeal-ous, chico?" she called to one of the bangers propped against the fence.

He laughed and called back, "You wish, Maria. You wish you had me 'stead of him."

"Yeah, sure. In your dreams."

We kissed – not a big show because we were in front of where she worked, and the bangers were there watching, but enough of a kiss to show we meant it. Then I took her work folders, and we started to the car.

"Carrying my books," Maria teased. "That's so cute, Alex."

"I'll carry you if you want me to."

"I missed you all day. Even more than usual," she said, and smiled again. Then she tucked her face into my shoulder. "I love you so much."

Maria sagged in my arms first, and then I heard the gunshots. Two distant pops that didn't sound like much of anything. I never saw the shooter, no sign. I wasn't even sure which direction the shots had come from.

Maria whispered, "Oh, Alex," and then she got quiet and very still. I couldn't tell if she was breathing.

Before I realized what was happening, she slid away from me, down onto the sidewalk. I could see that she'd been hit in the chest, or high on her stomach. It was too dark and confusing to tell anything else for certain.

I tried to shield her, but then I saw a lot of blood pumping from her wound, so I picked her up in my arms and began to run.

Blood was all over me too. I think I was shouting, but I'm not sure exactly what happened after I realized Maria had been shot, and how bad it looked.

Close behind me, a couple of the gangbangers were tagging along. One of them was Reuben. Maybe they wanted to help. But I didn't know if anything could help Maria now. I was afraid she was dead in my arms.

Chapter 15

ST. ANTHONY'S HOSPITAL wasn't far away, and I was running as fast as I could with Maria bundled and sagging heavily in my arms. My heart, the rushing blood, created a loud roar in my ears, like being caught under or maybe inside an ocean wave that was about to crash over both of us and drown us on these city streets.

I was afraid I might trip and fall because my legs were wobbly and weak. But I also knew I couldn't go down, couldn't stop running until I was at the ER.

Maria hadn't made a sound since she had whispered my name. I was afraid, maybe in shock, and definitely affected by tunnel vision. Everything around me was a fuzzy blur that made the moment seem even more unreal.

But I was definitely running.

I reached Independence Avenue and finally saw St. Anthony's glowing red Emergency Room sign less than a block away

I had to stop for traffic, which was heavy and moving fast. I began to shout for help. From where I was standing, I could see a clique of hospital attendants huddled together, talking among themselves, but they hadn't seen me yet and couldn't hear me over the traffic noise.

There was no other choice, so I edged my way out onto the busy street.

Cars swerved and skidded around me, and a silver station wagon stopped completely. An exasperated father was at the wheel, kids leaning forward from the backseat. No one honked, maybe because they could see Maria in my arms. Or maybe it was the look on my face. Panic, despair, whatever it was.

More cars braked to let me through.

I was thinking to myself, We're going to make it. I told Maria, "We're at St. Anthony's. You're going to be all right, sweetheart. We're almost there. Hang on, we're almost at the hospital. I love you."

I reached the other side of the street, and Maria's eyes suddenly blinked wide open. She looked at me, peered deeply into my eyes. At first she seemed confused, but then she focused on my face.

"Oh, I do love you, Alex," Maria said, and she gave me that wonderful wink of hers. Then my sweet girl's eyes closed for the last time, and she was gone forever from me. Even while I was standing there holding on to her for dear life.

Chapter 16

MARIA SIMPSON CROSS DIED in my arms – which was something I told almost no one, except Sampson and Nana Mama.

I didn't want to talk about our last few moments together; I didn't want anyone's pity, or their prying. I didn't want to satisfy some people's need for petty gossip, the latest dramatic story to whisper in hushed tones. All through the murder investigation over the next several months, I never discussed what had happened in front of St. Anthony's. That was between Maria and me. Sampson and I talked to hundreds of people, but nobody gave us a lead on her killer. The trail went cold fast and stayed that way. We checked out the crazy mob killer but discovered he'd been on a flight back to New York the previous night – apparently he left town shortly after he left my kitchen. The FBI helped us there because a cop's wife had been shot. The killer wasn't the Butcher.

At two o'clock the morning after she died, I was inside our apartment, still wearing my holster and gun, pacing the living room with a screaming Janelle in my arms. I couldn't get the idea out of my head that our baby girl was crying for her mother, who had died that night just outside St. Anthony's, where Jannie had been born six months before.

Suddenly tears were rolling from my eyes, and I felt overwhelmed by what had happened, both the reality and the unreality of it. I couldn't deal with any of this, but especially the baby girl I was holding, and whom I couldn't get to stop crying.

"It's all right, baby. It's all right," I whispered to my poor girl, who was being tortured by the insidious croup and who probably wanted to be in her mother's arms rather than mine. "It's all right, Jannie, it's all right," I repeated, though I knew it was a lie. I was thinking, It's not all right! Your mama is gone. You'll never see her anymore. Neither will I. Dear, sweet Maria, who had never hurt another person that I could remember and whom I loved more than my own life. She had been taken away from us so suddenly and for no reason anyone – not even God – could ever explain to me.

Oh, Maria, I spoke to her as I walked back and forth carrying our baby, how could this have happened? How can I do what I have to do from now on? How can I do it without you? I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm just crazed right now. I'll get it together. I'll get it together, I promise. Just not tonight.

I knew she wouldn't answer me, but it was strangely comforting to imagine that Maria could talk back, that maybe she could hear me at least. I kept hearing her voice, the exact sound of it and the words. You'll be fine, Alex, because you love our kids so much.

"Oh, Jannie, you poor baby. I do love you," I whispered against the top of our baby's damp, overheated head.

And then I saw Nana Mama.

Chapter 17

MY GRANDMOTHER WAS STANDING in the doorway of the hall leading to the apartment's two small bedrooms. Arms folded, she'd been watching me all this time. Had I been talking to myself? Talking out loud? I had no idea what I'd been doing.

"I woke you, didn't I?" I said in a whisper that was hardly necessary given the crying baby.

Nana was calm, and she seemed in control of herself. She'd stayed at the apartment to help with the kids in the morning, but now she was up, and that was my fault, and little Jannie's.

"I was awake," she said. "I was up thinking that you and the kids have to come back to my house on Fifth Street. It's a big enough house, Alex. Plenty big. That's the best way for this to work from now on."

"For what to work?" I asked, a little confused by what she was saying, especially as Jannie was wailing loudly in my other ear.

Nana's back arched. "You need me to help you with these children, Alex. It's as obvious as the nose on your face. I accept that. I want to do it, and I will."

"Nana," I said. "We'll be fine. We'll do this ourselves. Just give me a little time to get my bearings."

Nana ignored me as she continued to bring me in on her thinking. "I'm here for you, Alex, and I'm here for the babies. That's the way it has to be now. I don't want any more back talk on it. So just stop, please."

She walked toward me then and put her thin arms around me, hugged me tighter than it looked like she could. "I love you more than I love my own life." Then she said, "I loved Maria. I miss her too. And I love these babies, Alex. Now more than ever."

We were both tearing up now – all three of us were crying in the close, cramped living room space of the apartment. Nana was right about one thing: This place couldn't be our home anymore. Too many memories of Maria lived here.

"Now give me Jannie. Give her over," she said, and it wasn't exactly a request. I sighed and handed over the baby to this five-foot-tall warrior of a woman who had raised me from the time I was ten and already orphaned.

Nana began to pat Jannie's back and to rub her neck, and then the baby produced a righteous belch. Nana and I both laughed in spite of ourselves.

"Not very ladylike," Nana whispered. "Now, Janelle, you stop this awful crying. You hear me? You just stop it right now."

And Jannie did as she was told by Nana Mama, and that was the beginning of our new life.