Fear No Evil

Chapter 52

Around four that afternoon, the DOJ approved the Hernandez family’s move into the federal witness protection program. I had to take Nana Mama to a doctor’s appointment and left the house as Sampson and Mahoney continued interviewing Rosella.

Special Agent Hanson was on the porch. I scanned the area, saw a few other agents I recognized from earlier in the day.

“No satellite news trucks,” I said.

“We’re keeping Eddie unidentified until Rosella and the kids are gone. Marshals will be here after dark.”

“And they’ll slip out and vanish.”

“As if they never existed,” Hanson said. “I’m sorry I got in your face this morning, Dr. Cross.”

“Emotions run high when someone you trust dies like that.”

“Makes me sick now, knowing he didn’t deserve that trust. My trust.”

“Until we meet again, Special Agent Hanson,” I said and offered my hand.

She shook it. “Under better circumstances, I hope.”

I left, walked down the street, and called an Uber. On the ride, I tried to wrap my mind around the clear photo of Dale Cortland outside the country club almost five years after a bullet from a .50-caliber gun had reportedly torn his head off in Afghanistan.

We’d heard rumors, of course, of deep, secret groups operating within the U.S. intelligence apparatus whose members were people like Cortland, soldiers whose deaths were staged so they could operate with impunity while the government denied their very existence. After all, the soldiers were dead. The official death certificates said so.

Was that what we were facing? A group of dead people with nothing to lose taking on the biggest drug cartel in the world?

I still had no answers to those questions when I got home and found Nana Mama dressed and waiting. We turned right around and got another Uber. On the ride, she said, “Ali’s tickled pink about something and can’t wait to tell you.”

Before I could reply, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was DC Metro Police.

“This is Alex Cross,” I said.

“This is Detective Wendy Sutter, Dr. Cross,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

“How could I forget?” I said. “The Gabe Qualls case.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I’m calling to tell you your son’s been at it again.”

Inwardly, I groaned. “Sticking his nose into another investigation of yours?”

“The arson case at Maury Elementary.”

“I knew he was interested in that but—”

“Ali solved the case,” she said and laughed. “I don’t think you’re going to be happy about how he did it, but there’s no doubt. We’ve got an arrest warrant and are about to serve it. You should be proud of him.”

“I am proud of him, always,” I said, smiling. “What exactly did he do?”

“I think I’ll let him tell you. I’m just giving you a heads-up that he did good.”

I thanked her, hung up, and repeated the gist of the conversation to Nana Mama, who laughed and said, “I told you he was excited about something!”

Nana Mama and I returned home about an hour later. Her cardiologist visit had gone well, and I still had Detective Sutter’s call on my mind, which made me eager to get inside.

Bree was in the kitchen, cooking duck, of all things, and even my grandmother thought it smelled delicious.

“How long until dinner?” I asked.

“Twenty minutes?” Bree said.

“Perfect,” I said and went upstairs.

I found Ali’s door ajar. I pushed it open to find my almost-eleven-year-old with his shirt off, on the floor, trying valiantly to do a push-up with trembling arms that just couldn’t get him there.

Ali flopped on his belly, groaned, and looked at me. “This is hard.”

“How many did you do?”

“Two,” he said, sounding disgusted with himself.

“It’ll come,” I said as he got to his feet. “What’s this I hear about you having something to do with finding the arsonist?”

Ali grinned. “Detective Sutter called you?”

“She wanted me to know that you did some impressive investigative work.”

My youngest child beamed. “It gave me the best feeling ever, Dad. Better than school. Better than mountain biking or even climbing. That’s why I’m doing push-ups.”

“Okay?”

“I have to be strong if I’m going to be a detective,” he explained.

“You want to be a detective?”

“Like you and Bree. Can I take, like, judo or karate or boxing lessons?”

I smiled. Ali had always been the most bookish of my children, the one who had shied away from sports of all kinds until he’d taken an interest in mountain biking and climbing walls the year before. Next came sports camp. And now he wanted to learn to fight.

“Whichever one you want,” I said. “Learning to defend yourself is a good thing, but why don’t you tell me how you identified the arsonist.”

“Oh,” Ali said. “I realized that the only elementary school in Southeast that had not been vandalized or burned was Amidon-Bowen.”

“Okay?”

“So I did surveillance, like you do,” he said. He looked down, scratching his arm. “I know I should have told you or Bree or Nana, but I snuck out of the house and went to the school three nights a week.”

“What?”

“Dad, I hid myself near the dumpsters and watched until I saw him two nights ago, the guy with the camo mask sneaking around. I followed him home and told Detective Sutter. She says it’s him and they’re going to arrest him.”

“I heard that,” I said. “Who is he?”

Ali shrugged. “Some older kid, a teenager. Detective Sutter said he was expelled from school last year. How did you learn to box?”

I remained extremely unhappy that Ali had been sneaking out in the middle of the night but allowed the change of subject. “Friend of Nana’s taught me and John to box,” I said. “Charlie Elliott. He had a gym about two blocks from our house. It’s not there anymore.”

“Dad, I think I want to learn to box,” he said. “And also how to grapple with suspects.”

I almost laughed but I could see the seriousness in his eyes. Ali tended to jump from one interest or obsession to another every six weeks. But this felt different. It was the second time in the past year that he’d come up with vital information in a sensitive investigation. This felt like resolve, like he absolutely intended to follow in my and Bree’s footsteps.

Part of me wanted to tell him about the harsh realities of the job, mention the men and women I’d known who couldn’t handle the pace or the demands of a high-profile investigation, the ones who’d turned to booze or drugs or anything to dull their pain. But I didn’t. “You really want to be an investigator?” I said.

“Maybe an FBI agent like you were,” he said.

“I worked there because I received a PhD in criminal behavior, and I published a research paper based on my interviews with violent criminals. The Bureau decided it needed someone with my skill set and recruited me.”

“How did you learn to be a detective?”

“I was a homicide detective before I joined the FBI. Then I went through basic FBI training at Quantico just like any other agent. Then the agents in the behavioral unit trained me in the rest.”

“The behavioral unit,” Ali said. “They hunt serial killers.”

“They do,” I said. “Among other things.”

“Did you like hunting serial killers?”

“I enjoyed the process of trying to predict their actions based on their prior actions. I was very good at it.”

“That’s profiling, right?”

“Part of profiling,” I said. I happened to glance at the clock on his wall. “You’d better put your shirt on. It’s almost time for dinner.”

Ali grabbed his shirt. “Okay, Dad. And thanks for talking to me!”

“Anytime,” I said, and stepped out of his room. That kid will do special things with his life. He’ll make us all proud, no matter what he decides to do. My God, he already has! At ten!

I laughed and shook my head at how wonderful life could feel at times.