Cross the Line

by James Patterson

  “Time,” Ali said. “And how it, like, curves at the speed of light. Neil deGrasse Tyson said that’s what happens, so it has to be true.”

  I opened my eyes, thinking how strange it was to be having this conversation with a seven-year-old. “I think Einstein figured that out.”

  “I know that,” Ali said. “Which makes it doubly true, and that’s the problem, and that’s why I can’t sleep.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t see it in my head—you know, time curving.”

  “And that’s why you fell asleep late and woke up early?”

  “Yes,” he said, snuggling deeper into my lap. “Can you explain it to me?”

  I had to fight not to laugh.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “Physics isn’t one of my strengths even when I’m well rested.”

  “Oh,” Ali said. “I was thinking that maybe it was like when you’re dreaming and time seems like it goes on forever, but scientists studying your brain say you’re only dreaming for three to eight minutes. Does that make sense?”

  That woke me up for good, and I looked down at my son and wondered what he would become. I’d told all my kids that they could be anything their hearts desired as long as they were willing to work for it. But at that moment, Ali seemed limitless.

  “Dad? Does that make sense?”

  “I’ve never heard Einstein’s theory of relativity explained that way, and I honestly can’t tell you if it makes sense, but you certainly showed imagination coming up with that idea.”

  Ali smiled and then chewed on his lip. “You think Neil deGrasse Tyson would know if that’s how dreams work? You know, at the speed of light and bending time?”

  “I would imagine that if anyone knows, it would be Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

  “He’s not here,” Ali said. “At the Smithsonian, I mean.”

  “No, he’s in New York. At the Natural History Museum, I believe.”

  “Think I could call him up and ask him?”

  I laughed. “You want to call Dr. Tyson up and tell him about your theory?”

  “That’s right. Can I, Dad?”

  “I don’t have his number.”

  “Oh,” Ali said. “Who would?”

  Jannie appeared in the doorway. “Dad, do you even have your shoes on?”

  “They’re on, just not tied,” I said, giving Ali a nudge.

  He got off my lap grudgingly and said, “Dad?”

  “I’ll look into it and get back to you. Okay?”

  Ali brightened, said, “I’m going to watch Origins until Nana Mama gets up to make breakfast.”

  “An excellent idea.” I grunted and tied my shoes.

  Chapter

  30

  “Finally,” Jannie said when I walked out onto the front porch and found her stretching.

  “Your brother had lots of questions.”

  “As usual,” Jannie said, sounding slightly miffed. “Where does he come up with that stuff? Dreams and time and, I don’t know, the universe?”

  “Those shows he watches,” I said, trying to stretch my hips and failing miserably. “And the Internet.”

  “He’s the only kid I know who thinks like that,” she said.

  “It’s a good thing.”

  “I guess,” she said. “But it’s like guaranteed now he’s going to be a nerd.”

  “Nerds rule the world these days, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Jannie thought about that, said, “Well, I guess it would be okay if my little brother grew up to rule the world.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Right.” She grinned. “Now, are we going to run or not?”

  “To be honest, I would vote for not.”

  “Do I need to remind you about the ten pounds you need to lose?”

  “Ouch,” I said. “And it’s five.”

  Jannie crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow skeptically.

  “Okay, seven,” I said. “And let’s go before I decide to get doughnuts.”

  Jannie turned, started to move, and became someone else. It was a very strange thing, I thought as she started to lope down the sidewalk with me puffing already. There was my daughter, Jannie, who had to struggle to sit still and succeed in school. And there was Jannie Cross, who ran so effortlessly.

  She picked up her pace all the way to the end of the block and then glided back to me.

  “Show-off,” I said.

  “You’re breaking a sweat,” she said. “This is good.”

  “How far are we going?” I asked.

  “Three miles,” she said.

  “Thank you for being merciful.”

  “The idea is to make you want to show up again tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I said without enthusiasm.

  We ran past the Marine barracks and heard them doing PT. We ran past Chung Sun Chung’s convenience store, the best around. It was doing a brisk business, as usual. In the window, the Powerball sign said the pot was nearing fifty million dollars.

  “Remind me to stop and get Nana Mama’s tickets on the way back,” I said.

  “You ever won anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nana Mama?”

  “Twice. Once ten thousand dollars and once twenty-five thousand.”

  “When was that?”

  “Before I went to college.”

  “So a long time ago.”

  “Paleolithic era,” I said.

  “Must be why you run like a mastodon.”

  She laughed and took off in a burst of speed, ran all the way to the end of the block, then jogged back to me again.

  “Mastodon?” I said, trying to act offended.

  “Saber-toothed tiger trying to get back in shape?”

  “Much better.”

  We ran on for several minutes before Jannie said, “So why were you and Bree fighting last night?”

  “We weren’t fighting,” I said. “We were arguing.”

  “Loud argument.”

  “Passionate subject,” I said. “And Bree’s under a lot of pressure from the top brass to make something happen, something that shows the public that DC Metro is still on top of things.”

  “Like what?” Jannie asked as we ran past the armory.

  “Like clearing a major murder case. The Tommy McGrath murder case.”

  “Are you close to making an arrest?”

  “No, because the prime suspect shot himself yesterday.”

  Jannie shook her head. “I don’t know how you deal with that kind of stuff.”

  “Like anything, it takes practice.”

  “So why did he shoot himself? Because you suspected him and he knew you were after him?”

  “That’s what Bree thinks,” I said. “It’s also what Chief Michaels thinks.”

  “But you don’t?”

  I struggled with how much to tell her. “There are other explanations of why the suspect would want to commit suicide.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh.”

  “And no more questions about that, okay?”

  “Sure, Dad. I was just interested.”

  “And I appreciate your interest in that and in getting me out of bed this morning.”

  We ran to the National Arboretum, and on the way back, the running wasn’t half the torture I’d expected. When we passed Chung Sun Chung’s store, the line for lottery tickets was ten-deep, so I skipped it and we went home.

  Nana Mama was up cooking scrambled eggs and bacon, and Ali was engrossed in Origins. I went upstairs; Bree was in the shower.

  “Hey,” she said when I climbed in.

  “Sorry we argued last night.”

  Bree nodded, hugged me, and said, “I still think Howard did it, shot Tom, Edita, and then himself.”

  “Or Howard shot himself because he had stage four lung cancer. Or he was telling you the truth about not owning a Remington 1911.”

  “Or he was lying about it.”
<
br />   “Or he was lying about it. Or he didn’t kill anyone, and someone associated with the Phoenix Club did. Truce until we know more?”

  Bree hugged me tighter. “Being chief of detectives is hard.”

  “I think you’re doing a great job.”

  “Chief Michaels doesn’t think so.”

  “Sure he does. He’s just getting heat from the mayor and the city council.”

  “I am going to get through this, right?”

  “We are going to get through this.”

  Chapter

  31

  The ballistics report on the .45-caliber Remington 1911 that killed Terry Howard came back around ten fifteen that morning. It was the same pistol that had been used to kill Tom McGrath and Edita Kravic.

  “Case closed?” Chief Michaels asked. “We can tell the media that?”

  “Yes,” Bree said.

  I said nothing.

  The chief noticed, said, “Alex?”

  “You might want to say there’s strong evidence that Howard did it, but there are still some loose ends to take care of before we put the file in boxes.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “The car used in McGrath’s murder. It wasn’t Howard’s. And I’d like to see a bill of sale saying Howard actually owned a Remington 1911. All records I’ve checked say he was a Smith and Wesson guy.”

  Chief Michaels looked at Bree, said, “You’re confident?”

  “Terry Howard hated Tom,” she said. “Howard had lost his job and had cancer. Tom was chief of detectives with a younger girlfriend. So Howard’s bitterness built into rage, and he shot Tom and Edita. Then he shot himself, figuring we’d eventually put two and two together.”

  “Kind of convenient.”

  “Or true.”

  “Sorry, Alex,” Chief Michaels said. “I agree with Chief Stone.”

  “Not my call, but I can live with it,” I said.

  “Good. And the drug-lab massacre?”

  “We’ve had everyone pressuring informants, but there’s no talk on the streets about the hired gunmen. Just the victims.”

  “Which means?”

  “They’re an outside force,” I said. “Highly trained. Probably ex-military.”

  “Probably hired by a rival drug interest,” Bree said.

  “Or they’re vigilantes,” I said.

  “Alex,” Bree said with a sigh.

  “Vigilantes?” the chief said, eyes narrowing. “Where do you see that?”

  “No drugs were taken in the three attacks. No money was taken in the three attacks. If you think about it, a message was being sent loud and clear.”

  “What message?”

  “Stop making meth or we’ll kill you too.”

  Chief Michaels thought about that for several moments before he looked at Bree. “No talk about vigilantes until we have something more solid.”

  Bree glanced at me, then said, “Done, sir.”

  Sampson and I watched Bree’s press conference in our office. Even though Bree and I disagreed on both cases, I thought she handled the situation skillfully, and I was grateful when she said that the evidence indicated Howard killed his former partner but that there were loose ends that had to be dealt with before the investigation could be considered closed.

  When discussing the mass murder at the drug factory, however, she made no mention of vigilantes and supported the theory that we were dealing with a drug gang war and mercenaries.

  “I hope she’s right,” Sampson said.

  “I do too, actually,” I said.

  “No attack in days.”

  “It is possible that there won’t be any more, that what needed to be done has been done.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sampson said. “What’s your Spider-Man sense telling you?”

  “I don’t have a Spider-Man sense. I can’t even pick a good lottery number.”

  “Okay, what are your years of experience telling you?”

  I thought about that, said, “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  Detective Lincoln knocked, said, “McGrath had serious encryption on his computer. We’re going to have to send it out.”

  “Send it to Quantico,” I said. “I’ll try to get it moved to the front of the line.”

  “Right away,” Lincoln said, and he left.

  Sampson said, “I feel like we’re banging our heads against a wall on every aspect of every case we’ve got.”

  “You’ve got a hard head; you’ll break us through.”

  “No match between Howard’s gun and the Rock Creek shooter.”

  “I saw that. You talk with Aaron Peters’s fellow lobbyists? Family?”

  Sampson nodded, said the Maserati’s driver had been divorced for five years. No kids. Played the field. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, but not in a way that provoked animosity or revenge.

  “His partners said Peters could make you smile while he was cutting your throat,” Sampson said.

  “Lovely image,” I said. “What about other shootings like these?”

  Sampson frowned, said, “I’ll look. You?”

  “I think I’ll go hunting for mercenaries.”

  Chapter

  32

  Three days later, Sampson and I drove south on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Looking west across Chesapeake Bay, I saw something pale and white in the sky far away. I squinted. The sun caught it.

  “There’s a blimp out there,” I said. “A couple of them.”

  “Don’t see those too often. There a big sports event?”

  “No idea,” I said before losing sight of them.

  Forty minutes later, we were on the Nanticoke Road in Salisbury, Maryland. Farmers were cutting hay and harvesting corn in a shimmering heat.

  “Feels like we’re going to kick a hornet’s nest,” Sampson said.

  “Or a basket with spitting cobras inside,” I said, and I wondered whether we might be biting off more than we could chew, coming here without an entire SWAT team to back us up.

  “This guy’s background is spooky.”

  I nodded, said, “In some ways, he’s got the perfect résumé for a mass murderer.”

  “That’s it up ahead on the right, I think,” Sampson said, gesturing through the windshield at a gated pull-off in a large woodlot between two farms.

  Hand-painted signs hung from the locked gate: DOGS ARE THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRIES; DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT; BLAST ZONE; and, my favorite, THE LUNATIC IS IN THE GRASS.

  “We might want to rethink this,” Sampson said.

  “Dolores said he’s good until sundown usually,” I said and pulled the squad car over on the shoulder beyond the gate.

  I got out, felt the breeze, smelled the salt air, and heard the sawing of cicadas in the hardwoods. I looked at the signs on the gate again, thought about the path that had taken us here, and wondered if Sampson was right, if we should rethink this unannounced visit.

  Three days before, I’d started looking into mercenaries living in the Washington, DC, area, and I was shocked at the high numbers. But once it was explained to me, it made sense.

  In 2008, at the height of the Iraq War, there were 155,826 private contractors operating in Iraq in support of 152,000 U.S. soldiers. Private contractors outnumbered the U.S. military in Afghanistan as well. Between the two wars, best estimates are that as many as forty thousand men and women were involved in security and other private military activities. In other words, guns for hire. In other words, mercenaries.

  Most of them were highly trained former elite soldiers working through security companies like Blackwater, which had been based in Northern Virginia. These companies and ex-soldiers had made a lot of money for nearly a decade.

  And then the spigot closed. President Obama ordered the troops withdrawn from Iraq, and with them went the need and the money to hire scads of private security personnel. Men who’d been making a hundred and fifty thousand to a half a million a year in the war zones were suddenly looking for work.

 
A friend of mine at the Pentagon told me there were probably five thousand of these guns for hire living in and around the nation’s capital. But it wasn’t like there was a directory of them.

  I’d asked my friend if there was someone who knew a lot about that world, someone who might point us in the right direction. He’d called back yesterday and given me a phone number.

  When I’d called it, a woman answered and said, “Don’t bother doing a trace, Detective Cross. It’s a burn phone. And call me Dolores.”

  “I’m just asking for advice, Dolores.”

  “Ask away.”

  I asked Dolores if she’d read about the massacre at the drug factory in Anacostia. She had. I told her how clean an operation it was and how we believed ex-military were involved.

  “Makes sense,” she’d said.

  “Any candidates you can think of? Someone with military training, and maybe a beef with drug dealers? Someone willing to go outside the law and lead others into mass murder?”

  There was a long, long pause, and finally Dolores had said, “I can think of only one offhand.”

  Startling me from my thoughts, Sampson cleared his throat and gestured at the gate. “After you, Alex.”

  With a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach, I walked to the gate of Nicholas Condon’s place and climbed over it.

  Chapter

  33

  Sampson and I had looked at Condon’s hundred-and-twelve-acre empire on Google Earth the night before. The dirt road beyond the gate wound through woods to a modest farm with several fields.

  Now we could see that the road was not frequently used and even less frequently maintained, with wild raspberry and thorny vines trying to choke it off on both sides.

  “Get your badge out,” I said. “You see him, you raise both hands and identify yourself.”

  “Think he’ll care that we’re cops?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But someone with his background probably realizes that killing a cop would be a stupid move.”

  “Comforting when you’re going to talk to a guy who considers himself a lunatic in the grass.”