Deadly Cross

by Patterson, James

  “We will be back,” I promised, then I looked at Mury, who’d just reached the top. “Can you teach us how to do screaming rappels? We have to go.”

  “Screamers.” Mury smiled. “I can do that.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE FEELING OF LEANING AWAY from the cliff, pushing off the rock face, releasing my grip on the rappelling rack, falling a good fifteen feet before my boots hit the wall, then starting the whole process over again was still with me when I got out of my car and headed up the block toward the police lines.

  It was July in DC, but it was strangely cool, low seventies, low humidity, with a brisk breeze. The school came into view, shut and empty for the summer. Jannie went to Harrison, and when I saw the circus of media satellite trucks around the school grounds, it made the scene that much more upsetting.

  I skirted the trucks and pushed my way through the onlookers, hearing but trying to ignore the vicious gossip and speculation already spreading about the victims and the heinous crime.

  In the past I had been both an FBI agent and a DC Metro Homicide detective, and now I was a consultant for both agencies. I showed my identification to the uniformed officer restricting entry to the crime scene, and he let me duck under the tape.

  I made it fifteen yards before an FBI agent asked me for my ID. I gave him my FBI contractor’s badge, and he waved me through. John Sampson, my best friend and former partner at DC Homicide, came around the corner.

  “FBI?” I said.

  “Given the victims, not surprising.”

  “Right, but who’s in charge?”

  “Mahoney. He wants you to look at the bodies before they’re moved.”

  “How bad?”

  “They weren’t shot in the face. You’ll recognize both.”

  We walked around to the lot in the rear of the school, and I saw an FBI forensics van and a DC medical examiner’s vehicle parked by the football field and track where my daughter had run some of her finest races. There were at least twenty agents prowling the lot, looking for any and all evidence. I could see a team of them on the field.

  “Who found them?” I asked.

  “School security guard,” he said, gesturing toward dumpsters with yellow police tape around them. “They’re out back.”

  I said, “Time of death?”

  “ME says four a.m.”

  We went over to the dumpsters to find the familiar powder-blue Bentley convertible cordoned off by more police tape, and agents, criminologists, and police detectives milling around the area.

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Ned Mahoney, my old partner at the Bureau, separated himself from the pack, came over, and shook my hand. “We’ve been waiting on you, Alex. It’s been photographed but not scoured by forensics yet.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can I get some breathing room?”

  Mahoney clapped and yelled, “All right, now, everyone back off, we need the scene to ourselves for a moment.”

  We got odd glances, but they walked off.

  I took in the Bentley convertible and the victims in the back seat, and part of me wanted to sit down and cry. But I’d spent the majority of my adult life confronting murder, and there was only one way to do it well: divorce yourself emotionally from the victims. In this case, that was going to be difficult.

  Mahoney, seeming to read my thoughts, said, “You sure you’re up to this?”

  “I’ll deal with it,” I said as I walked around the car toward the female victim.

  I wanted to treat her as an object to be studied and evaluated, but I was having a hard time taking my eyes off Kay Willingham’s face. She was one of the most striking, most interesting women I’d ever known, and here she was dead, sprawled next to a man who had apparently been her lover, unlikely as that seemed.

  I had to force myself not to look at her blank expression and instead focus on the two bullet wounds about four inches apart and two inches above her bare left breast. Her rose-lace bra was on her lap; her black dinner dress was tugged down around her waist.

  “No sign she had her hands up in a defensive posture,” I said. “I’m thinking she never saw her killer.”

  “Neither did he,” Sampson said from the other side of the car. “I think they had other things on their minds.”

  Only then did I look at the male victim. He was turned slightly toward Kay, his head slumped on his right arm, which was extended over the compartment that held the convertible’s retracted roof. His pants and boxers were around his ankles. Blood from two chest wounds had drained across his left thigh and pooled between his legs.

  “The press is going to have a field day with this,” Sampson said.

  “For way too many reasons,” Mahoney said.

  I didn’t reply, but Ned and John were right; there were so many reasons for this to blow up, and in ways we couldn’t predict.

  Kay Willingham was a vivacious Georgetown socialite, a Southern heiress and power broker who had, until two years ago, been married to J. Walter Willingham, the current vice president of the United States.

  The man with her, Randall Christopher, was the founder and principal of Harrison Charter High, a charismatic man rumored to have his eye on the mayor’s office and, if that went well, higher political aspirations. Christopher was African-American and married with twin girls who were sophomores at his school and friends of my daughter.

  “Look at that,” I said, shaking my head.

  “What?” Sampson and Mahoney said.

  “We might be witnessing the birth of a perfect shitstorm.”

  CHAPTER 6

  BEFORE EITHER OF THEM COULD respond, two men in dark suits and shades ducked under the tape.

  “Spin around, whoever you are,” Mahoney barked. “And get off my crime scene.”

  They both held up badges. The taller of them, the one with the buzz cut, said, “Donald Breit, U.S. Secret Service.”

  “Lloyd Price, U.S. Secret Service,” said the other, who was built like a brick with powerful legs and arms. “You are?”

  “FBI Special Agent in Charge Mahoney,” Ned snapped. “Now get off my crime scene.”

  Agent Price took off his shades, his face softening. In a quieter voice, he said, “Please, sir, and no disrespect, but Kay Willingham is — was — our boss’s ex-wife.”

  Agent Breit removed his sunglasses as well, revealing bloodshot eyes. “He’s crushed, the VP. I’ve never seen him like this. As soon as he heard, he asked us to come down. To find out what we could, Special Agent Mahoney. I know it’s crazy … but he still loves her.”

  Mahoney hesitated for a moment, and then in a reasonable tone he said, “I’ll share what I can once I know where the vice president was last night, the entire night.”

  “So, what, you think J. Walter killed them?” Agent Breit said. “Are you insane?”

  “Answer the question,” Mahoney said.

  Agent Price said, “The VP was seen last night by five hundred people at a ten-grand-a-plate fundraiser at the Hilton. He left at ten thirty-seven on the dot, and I personally drove him home to One Observatory Circle, where he went to bed and remained all night.”

  “You have documentation?”

  Breit nodded. “Every minute of that man’s day is accounted for.”

  “Glove up,” Mahoney said. “You can take a look. Dr. Cross will brief you.”

  “Alex Cross?” Agent Price said.

  “That’s right,” I said, shaking his hand.

  Agent Breit said, “The boss will be happy you’re on the case. He’s heard of you.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said and shook his hand as well. “Do you want to take a look? Maybe you’ll see something we’ve missed.”

  The Secret Service agents nodded and followed me to the blue Bentley. They both stopped and lost color when they saw Kay.

  “Jesus,” Breit said.

  Price said, “I don’t want to be the one to tell him.”

  “Too much?” I said.

  “No,” Breit said. He walked clos
er, saw Christopher’s pants down. “What? Jesus.”

  “She’s not wearing jewelry,” Price said. “That’s wrong.”

  Breit nodded. “Kay was a jewelry nut, and she’s got no jewelry on. Look at the dress. She should be decked out in diamonds and pearls. And his watch is gone. Check his breast pocket.”

  Mahoney did, then shook his head.

  Sampson said, “No phones. Either of them.”

  “Well,” I said. “That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 7

  WE SEARCHED THE CAR AND the bodies but found no cell phones anywhere. After the medical examiner removed the corpses from the scene, Special Agents Breit and Price left to brief the vice president, and forensic techs went to work on Kay Willingham’s Bentley.

  An FBI blood-spatter expert soon determined they were shot from less than twenty feet. A tech who specialized in bullet trajectory said the killer probably stood ten or fifteen feet away from the front bumper and was tall enough to shoot over the intact windshield.

  “Brass?” I asked.

  The tech shook his head. “Smart shooter. Picked up after himself.”

  “Does that say I’m a hophead? Killing two people to grab diamonds and pearls, money, and phones?” Sampson said.

  “A hophead wouldn’t care about brass,” I said. “So scratch that killer profile. And even if Kay was wearing one of her really big necklaces, I’m having trouble seeing a pro killing her to get it.”

  Mahoney nodded. “Why not just a holdup? Her boobs are out; his pants are down. They’d be compliant.”

  “Right,” Sampson said. “So this is made to look like a robbery gone bad.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe a scavenger passed by after the killer left.”

  “And maybe the scavenger saw the shooter,” Mahoney said.

  “I like that maybe,” Sampson said, pointing at Ned. “I’m gonna work my sources on the street, find out where a scavenger would go to fence jewels in this hood.”

  “Good,” Mahoney said, then he looked at me. “After Christopher’s office, I’ll need you at Kay Willingham’s place.”

  I said, “Let’s not forget there’s another possible classic-killer profile here.”

  “Which one?” Mahoney asked.

  “The vengeful wife,” I said. “Where’s Mrs. Christopher in all this?”

  Sampson left. Mahoney and I entered the high school and got the janitor to open the principal’s suite of offices, which were dark. We passed the secretary’s desk and went through a door into a nice large office with Christopher’s framed diplomas, citations, and family photographs on the walls between the bookcases. The desk was remarkably tidy.

  A door stood ajar on one side. I found a switch, turned it on, and saw a much smaller second office that looked more used. There was a printer but no computer, although there was space for a laptop on the desk crowded with books and correspondence. This was where he’d really worked. “We’ll need agents to go through the mounds of stuff and find his computer.”

  “Probably at his house — ” Mahoney started. His phone buzzed before he could finish. “Great. I have to brief the media.”

  “How fun,” I said. “I’m going to go to Christopher’s home and talk to the wife, then I’ll go to Kay’s house in Georgetown.”

  When I left, I noticed a gap in the school perimeter fence, and I went through it so I could skirt the media circus.

  When I was almost to my car, a man called out, “Dr. Cross? I thought I’d find you somewhere about.”

  I knew that whiny, nasal voice and waved my hand without slowing. “No comment, Sparkman.”

  “No comment? I haven’t even asked a question.”

  “See there?” I said, reaching my car. “I’m saving you the time and effort.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll want to comment,” he said, and I finally looked at him.

  Clive Sparkman was in his early forties, disheveled, and generally a rude pain in the ass who made a very comfortable living running a highly clicked-on website that spread news, gossip, rumors, and outright lies about power brokers of all persuasions in the nation’s capital. He also published lurid stories about murder cases, which was how we’d become acquainted.

  “I know this case is a twofer for you, Sparkman, politics and homicide,” I said. “But I’m not answering any questions about an ongoing investigation. You want to know something new? Go listen to the FBI briefing in ten minutes.”

  Sparkman cocked his head knowingly. “I’ll be there listening to every word, but I’ll know something no one else does, something I’m considering publishing on my site tomorrow morning — a little nasty sidebar about this case for the rabidly interested.”

  I opened the car door, started to get in, said, “I’ve got places to be.”

  Sparkman said, “Actually, it’s about you, Cross, and … Kay Willingham?”

  I froze but looked at him dispassionately.

  He took off his sunglasses and smiled. “Did you have an affair with the vice president’s wife, Alex? Were you the cause of the divorce? I’ve seen a photograph of you two together, and I must say, you’re awfully chummy. Care to comment now?”

  “Go to hell, Sparkman, and write anything you want,” I said. “But make sure you’re accurate in that rumor or you will hear from my lawyer. His name is Craig Halligan. You remember him, don’t you? The guy who sued you for libel, took you for four million?”

  Sparkman looked like he’d swallowed a parasite.

  “Thought so,” I said. I shut the door and sped off.

  CHAPTER 8

  IT ACTUALLY TOOK A BIT of digging to figure out where Randall Christopher lived. The name on the lease of his rented home, it turned out, was Elaine Paulson, Christopher’s wife. I rang the front-porch bell on the left side of a duplex on Tenth Street between F and G Streets, but no one answered.

  I rang the neighbor’s bell next, and a big woman, mid-forties, wearing hospital scrubs and looking weary, opened the door a few inches but left the chain on.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I was looking for Elaine Paulson?”

  She grimaced. “She’s gone.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No idea.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Who I am is none of your business,” she said, and she started to close the door.

  I put my fingers on it, said, “I work for the FBI and Metro Homicide, ma’am. This is a murder investigation.”

  That stopped her. “Murder? Who was murdered?”

  “Ms. Paulson’s husband,” I said. “Randall Christopher.”

  Her left hand lifted slowly to her mouth. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Oh God, don’t tell me that.”

  “It’s all over the news. Or will be, and I need to talk to his wife sooner rather than later.”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick. Can you come back?”

  “Uh, no, this is a murder investigation, and we need your help.”

  She didn’t appear pleased about it, but she slid back the chain and opened the door.

  I held out my hand. “Alex Cross.”

  Her eyebrows raised in interest, and she shook my hand. “I recognize you now. From the news. I’m sorry. I’m Barbara Taylor.”

  “Nice to meet you, Barbara,” I said. “May I come in?”

  Taylor closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m going to get sucked into this, aren’t I?”

  “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “My ex got me sucked into things I didn’t want any part of.”

  “Mr. Christopher is dead. You can help.”

  She hesitated, then stood aside. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some iced tea?”

  “The iced tea sounds great, thanks,” I said, and I followed her through a tidy living area into a tidier kitchen.

  We spoke for a good forty minutes. A surgical nurse at Georgetown Medical Center, divorced, and the mother of two college students, Taylor ha
d befriended Randall Christopher and his wife the day they’d moved in. The twin girls were nine or ten then, and Elaine Paulson had her hands full while her husband founded and built the charter school from scratch. Taylor described Christopher as “single-minded and evangelically passionate” about his work, starting the school in a small building and then, as enrollment increased, taking over and refurbishing an existing school structure.

  “What about the marriage?”

  The nurse chewed her lip. “My judgment might be clouded here, given that my husband left me for a twenty-six-year-old, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Taylor said the marriage seemed loving and supportive in the first couple of years. But as Christopher got involved in various civil crusades, his star began to shine and people in the community began to look to him for leadership on everything from education to addressing the series of rapes and murders that had taken place in Southeast DC over the past fifteen years.

  “As a result, Randall was away often,” Taylor said. “And there were fights when he was home. Nothing physical, not that I ever saw. But there was a lot of shouting, and I heard her crying more than once.”

  “Police ever have to get involved?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I never called them, anyway.”

  “Did she confide in you?”

  The nurse gave me a strange look. “If I tell you, I’m not keeping her confidence.”

  “I gather that’s a yes.”

  Taylor did not respond.

  I said, “I’m going to ask her these same questions when I find her.”

  Still no response.

  “Have you considered the possibility that Elaine Paulson and her daughters might be in danger? And that they might need the FBI’s protection?”

  The nurse thought about that, then swallowed hard. “Please, I adore Elaine as a person, and I would not want to jeopardize our friendship.”

  “I just want to understand the situation, ma’am.”

  “All right,” she said, relenting. “They hadn’t made love in months. She suspected an affair. She considered hiring a detective to follow Randall.”