Detective Cross

Chapter 29

Ali, Jannie, and I were waiting on Nana Mama to finish some last minute dinner preparations when my cell phone rang.

“Don’t you dare,” my grandmother said, shaking a wooden spoon at me. “I’ve been working on this meal since noon.”

I held up my hands in surrender, let the call go to voice mail, and sniffed at delicious odors seeping out from under the lid of a large deep-sided pan.

“Smells great, Nana!” Ali said, reaching for the lid.

She gave him a gentle fanny swat with the spoon and said, “No peeking behind curtain number one.”

My cell rang again, prompting a disapproving sniff from Nana. I pulled out the phone, expecting Bree to be calling. We had all been frustrated leaving Vincente’s apartment earlier in the day. He’d looked good for the bomber going in, and not so good coming out. He seemed even more unlikely when Metro transit confirmed he’d never once ridden the Circulator, and the US Army confirmed he’d been a cook.

But it wasn’t Bree on my caller ID. Kate Williams was looking for me.

“Dinner in five minutes,” Nana said.

I walked out into the front hall. “Kate?”

“I think I’ve got him, Dr. Cross,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sitting on the bomber.”

“What? Where?”

“Veterans Affairs Medical Center. He’s in a support group meeting for IED-wounded vets until seven-fifty. I figure you have until eight to meet me at the bus stop at Brookland — CUA.”

The call ended. I stared at the phone.

Nana Mama called, “Dinner’s ready.”

“I’m sorry, Nana,” I said, grabbing my rain coat. “I’ve gotta go.”

Out the door and down the front stairs, I ran north in the pouring rain to Pennsylvania Avenue and hailed a cab. On the way I tried to reach Bree, but it kept going through to her voice mail.

I texted her what Kate had said, and that I was going to check it out. As smart and IED-savvy as my patient was, I wasn’t holding out real hope that she’d somehow identified the bomber. But I wasn’t going to ignore her, either.

In the rain, traffic was snarled, so I didn’t climb out of a cab at the Brookland — CUA Metro Station until two minutes past eight. Kate Williams stood at the bus stop shelter, leaning against a Plexiglas wall, smoking a cigarette and perusing People magazine.

Seeing me, she stubbed the butt out, flipped it into a trash can, and smiled.

“Means a lot that you came,” she said. She explained that she’d come back looking for me the night before and saw me in the D8 bus talking to Mr. Light.

Kate put two and two together, and spent most of the day riding the Circulator and the Hospital Center bus lines. Around six, she got on the Hospital Center bus at Union Station and saw a guy she recognized, sleeping in a seat near the back.

“I didn’t think much of him, beyond the fact that I’d seen him down around the Vietnam Memorial,” she said. “But when we got close to the hospital, he had some kind of nightmare, and yelled out something about getting blown up.”

I said, “I’m sure there are lots of guys who ride this bus and have flashbacks.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said. “But they don’t wear a blue rain jacket with a logo on the left chest that says... shit, here he comes. Half a block. Don’t look. Put your hood up. If he’s been watching the news, he’ll recognize you.”

The D8 bus pulled in.

“Get on before he does,” Kate said. “You’ll be behind him. Easier to control.”