Merry Christmas, Alex Cross

CHAPTER 56

I dragged the bag out with a mop handle Mahoney found.

“Her boots and the jacket,” I said. “Nothing in the pockets.”

“I’ll take that,” Mahoney said. “I want it checked for explosive residue.”

“We need the feeds of all cameras in the station in the ten minutes or so after LaMonte died,” I said, heading out of the restroom.

Two minutes later, an FBI technician was running a swab test on the Macy’s bag, and I was looking at a long-angle shot of the northeast end of Union Station, the feed from the only camera that gave us a reasonable view of the area around the restroom. I sped it up, checking out everyone walking west of the McDonald’s.

“There we are,” Mahoney said, pointing to the image of the four of us hurrying toward the McDonald’s.

But I was staring at the man who’d glanced at us as we’d passed, a slight figure with sandy-colored hair who was wearing a workman’s jumpsuit that said AMTRAK and carrying a canvas tool bag.

“That’s off,” I said.

“What?” Mahoney asked.

“That tool bag,” I said. “It’s the kind of thing plumbers used to carry. Or masons. I don’t see a modern workman with something like that.”

The figure disappeared from view.

“Where’s he going?” Mahoney asked.

We were standing back out in the main hall by then. I looked around, orienting myself to the camera’s angle, and let my eye travel in the direction the workman had taken, seeing the tail end of a line of people clearing security and climbing down the stairs to Amtrak gates A through L.

“There’s an Acela leaving soon,” I said, running toward the line while Mahoney called out to the command center out on Louisiana Avenue, asking for all footage of the security gate since it had opened for boarding.

We had it in less than thirty seconds. I replayed it at four times the normal speed and quickly spotted the workman with the canvas bag. But he wasn’t in line for the Acela. He skirted the gate and walked all the way to the other end of the station, where he entered the men’s restroom.

We began to run. My phone rang. Bree.

“Alex?”

“I can’t talk,” I said. “I want to talk. More than you know, but I can’t.”

“What’s going on?”

“All I can say is that there is a very, very bad person in Union Station.”

“Give me a great Christmas present. Stay away from him.”

“It’s a woman, and I promise you I’ll try.”