Cross the Line

by James Patterson

  “He’s heading toward the Naval Academy,” Sampson said. “It’s straight ahead there.”

  “Academy alumnus,” I said. “He’s going home.”

  “Yeah, but where, exactly?”

  I scanned the street, looking for Condon or his Harley. I wasn’t spotting—

  “Got him,” Sampson said, pointing into a triangular parking lot at the corner of Decatur and McNair, right next to College Creek. “That’s his ride, sitting there with the other motorcycles.”

  We pulled into the lot. A Marine Corps officer was just getting onto his bike, a midnight-blue Honda Blackbird with a partial windshield. We stopped beside him. I got out.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  The officer turned, helmet in hand. He appeared to be in his late forties with the rugged build of a lifelong member of the Corps. I glanced at the nameplate: Colonel Jeb Whitaker.

  “Colonel Whitaker, I’m Detective Alex Cross with DC Metro.”

  “Yes?” he said, frowning and looking at my identification and badge. “How can I help?”

  “Did you see the man on that Harley-Davidson come in?”

  Colonel Whitaker blinked and then nodded in exasperation. “Nick Condon. What’s he done now beyond parking where he’s not supposed to again?”

  “Nothing that we’re aware of,” Sampson said. “But he’s been avoiding having a conversation with us.”

  “Regarding?”

  “An investigation that we are not at liberty to talk about, sir,” I said.

  The colonel thought about that. “This isn’t going to reflect badly on the Naval Academy, is it?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “What’s Condon to the academy these days?”

  “He teaches shooting. On a contract basis, which means he’s supposed to park in a visitors’ lot, not here where you need an academy parking sticker.”

  He gestured to a light blue sticker with an anchor and rope on it stuck to the lower right corner of his windshield.

  “So we can’t park here?”

  Whitaker said, “I suppose if you put something on the dash that said Police, you could get around it.”

  I glanced at Sampson, who shrugged and pulled into a space.

  “Where would we go to find Mr. Condon?” I asked.

  “The indoor range?” Whitaker said, and he told me how to get there.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Anytime, Detective Cross,” Whitaker said. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen you on the nightly news with those shootings of the drug dealers. Is this about that?”

  I smiled. “Again, Colonel, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Oh, right, of course,” Whitaker said. “Well, have a nice day, Detectives.”

  The colonel put his helmet on and started to get on his bike, but then he stopped, patting at his pockets.

  “Forgot my keys again,” he said, hurrying by us. “You’d think someone who teaches military strategy could at least remember his keys.”

  “Age happens to the best of us,” I said.

  Whitaker waved his hand and trotted stiffly toward the heart of the Naval Academy. He’d disappeared from sight by the time we passed a sign saying GOD BLESS AMERICA and reached Radford Terrace, a lush, green quadrangle bustling with midshipmen and plebes during this, the first real week of classes.

  “Stop,” Sampson said, and he gestured across Blake Road. “Isn’t that Condon right over there?”

  Chapter

  59

  I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sniper before he slipped inside the Naval Academy’s chapel, an imposing limestone structure with a weathered copper dome. We hurried across the street and followed Condon in.

  The interior of the chapel was spectacular, with a towering arched ceiling, balconies, and brilliant stained-glass windows depicting maritime themes. There were at least fifty people inside, some plebes, others tourists taking in the sights. We didn’t spot Condon until he crossed below the dome and went through a door to the far right of the altar.

  Trying to stay quiet while rushing through the hush of a famous church is no mean feat, but we managed it and followed him through the door. We found ourselves on a stair landing. There was a closed door ahead of us, and steps that led down.

  We figured the door led to the sacristy and went down the stairs. We wandered around the basement hallways, not finding Condon but seeing the tomb of Admiral John Paul Jones before returning to our last point of contact.

  Back on the landing, I stood for a moment wondering where he could have gone, and then I heard Condon’s distinctive voice raised in anger on the other side of the sacristy door.

  “But they’re following me now, Jim,” Condon said. “This is persecution.”

  That was enough for me to rap at the door, push it open, and say, “We’re not persecuting anyone.”

  Condon and a chaplain stood in a well-appointed room with plush purple carpet and a clean, stark orderliness. The sniper’s face twisted in anger.

  The chaplain said, “What is this? Who are you?”

  “Really, Dr. Cross?” Condon said, taking a step toward us with his gloved hands clenched into fists. “You’d follow me in here? I thought better of you.”

  “We just wanted to talk,” Sampson said. “And you ran. So we followed.”

  “I didn’t run,” he said. “I was late for a meeting with the chaplain.”

  “You saw us and played cat and mouse,” I said, dubious.

  “Maybe,” Condon said. “But that was just entertainment.”

  “What’s this about?” the chaplain asked, exasperated.

  “You his spiritual adviser?” Sampson asked.

  They glanced at each other before the chaplain said, “It’s a little more complicated than that, Detective…?”

  “John Sampson,” he said, showing him his badge and credentials.

  “Alex Cross,” I said, showing mine.

  “Captain Jim Healey,” the chaplain said.

  “What’s complicated, Captain Healey?” I asked.

  “This is none of their business, Jim,” Condon said.

  The chaplain put his hand on the sniper’s arm and said, “I am Nicholas’s spiritual adviser. I was also the father of his late fiancée, Paula.”

  I didn’t expect that; I lost some of my confidence and stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry for your loss, Captain. For both of your losses.”

  “We meet to talk about Paula once a week,” the chaplain said, and he smiled faintly at Condon. “It’s good for us.”

  For a second I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry to have interrupted,” I finally told him. “We just wanted to talk to him for a few moments, Captain.”

  “About what?” Condon said, pugnacious again. “I already told you I didn’t have anything to do with those killings.”

  “You actually never answered our questions about that, but this is about six motorists shot by a lone motorcyclist within an hour’s drive of your house.”

  “One of them just up the road from your place,” Sampson said. “Beyond Willow Grove.”

  The sniper shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You own a forty-five-caliber handgun?” I asked.

  “Somewhere,” he said.

  “Would you let us test it?”

  “Hell no,” Condon said, and then he cocked his head. “Wait, you think I shot these people from my Harley? For what?”

  “Breaking traffic laws,” Sampson said. “Speeding. Driving and texting.”

  “This is insane, Jim,” the sniper said to the chaplain, throwing up his hands. “Every time a nutcase appears on the scene, they come after me. Even when a cursory glance at my medical record would show that I am not capable of shooting a forty-five-caliber handgun from a motorcycle going fast or slow.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sampson asked.

  Condon looked over at the chaplain and then pulled off his gloves
, revealing that he wore wrist braces. He tore those off too, revealing scars across his wrists.

  Captain Healey said, “Nick shattered both wrists in a training exercise when he was with SEAL Team 6. He can still shoot a rifle better than any man on earth, but his wrists and hands are too weak to shoot a pistol with any accuracy. It was what got him his medical discharge.”

  Chapter

  60

  Sampson pulled up in front of my house just as the sun was setting.

  “Don’t look so glum,” Sampson said. “We’ll come up with a new battle plan tomorrow.”

  “I feel like we had preconceptions about Condon,” I said, opening the door. “He was the easy person to look to, so we did.”

  “We had to look at him,” Sampson said. “It was our job.”

  “But it wasn’t our job to insult a war hero and tarnish his reputation,” I said, climbing out.

  “Did we do that?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes.”

  “Are we supposed to be dainty or something in a murder investigation?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I just need food and some sleep before I try to learn something from today.”

  “Me too, then. Best to the chief.”

  “And to Billie,” I said and climbed up the porch steps.

  When I went inside, I was blasted by the smell of curry and the sounds of home. Jannie was in the television room, her foot up and on ice.

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Like I could run on it,” she said.

  “Don’t you dare. You heard the doctor.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “But my legs are starting to ache from inactivity.”

  “They said you can start pool therapy on Monday and the bike on Tuesday. In the meantime, stretch. Where is everyone?”

  “Bree’s upstairs taking a shower,” she said. “Nana Mama’s in the kitchen with Ali. They’re working on a letter to Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

  “He’s not going to give this up, is he?”

  Jannie grinned. “He’s like someone else I know once he gets something going in his brain.”

  “Ditto,” I said. I winked at her and went through the dining room to the new kitchen and great room we’d had put on the year before.

  “God, it smells good in here,” I said, giving my grandmother a kiss as she stirred a simmering pot on the stove.

  “Bangalore lamb,” she said, tapping her wooden spoon and replacing the lid. “A new recipe.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said, and then I crossed to Ali. “How’s the letter coming?”

  “It’s hard,” he said, head down, studying his iPad. “You really have to think about what you want to say, you know?”

  “Keep at it,” I said, tousling his hair. “I have time for a shower?” I asked Nana Mama.

  “Dinner’s on the table in exactly half an hour,” she said.

  I hoofed it up the stairs, knocked twice on our bedroom door, and went in. Bree sat on the bed in her robe, studying a document on her lap. She didn’t look up until I was almost at her side.

  “Hey,” she said softly and with some sadness.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Muller and I went to Howard’s storage unit to take a look through his things on behalf of his ex-wife and daughter. We found two envelopes and…here, draw your own conclusions.”

  She held out the envelopes. “First one’s a will and an explanation of his investing theory.”

  “Terry Howard had an investing theory?” I said, taking the documents.

  “It’s all there,” she said, and she turned toward the closet. “Take five minutes to read, if that.”

  I read the pages while she dressed. When I was done, I looked up. Bree had those sad eyes about her again.

  “So I might be right,” I said.

  “Looks that way,” she replied. “Which is why I’m beginning to think I am a pretty shitty chief of detectives.”

  Chapter

  61

  Bree put her hand to her mouth and tears welled in her eyes.

  I got up off the bed fast and went to her. “You know that’s not true.”

  “It is,” she choked out, coming into my arms. “I was playing politics when I said Howard was good for Tommy’s death, trying to clear a murder so I could get the chief and the mayor off my back.”

  “Is that what you were doing?”

  “Well, I definitely wasn’t making sure Tommy McGrath’s killer was caught.”

  “Then the most you’re guilty of is being human,” I said, rubbing her back. “You were caught between a rock and a hard place, and Howard looked good for a suicide. The chief agreed.”

  “But you didn’t,” she said.

  “I thought it warranted further investigation. And guess what? You further investigated. You found documents we should have looked at weeks ago, but you found them nonetheless. You made a mistake, but you corrected it. You’re back on track, Chief Stone.”

  “Am I?” she said, unconvinced.

  “I have faith in you,” I said.

  “Thank you. It means everything.”

  We kissed.

  She scrunched up her nose afterward and said, “You are the love of my life, Alex, but you need a shower.”

  “On it now,” I said and headed into the bathroom.

  Letting the hot water beat on my neck, I thought back on the two documents Terry Howard had left behind. The first was a simple will that the disgraced detective wrote himself and had had notarized in duplicate. The will awarded all of Howard’s property, including his shotgun collection, to his nine-year-old daughter, Cecilia.

  Attached to the will was a letter explaining that he’d started investing in fine shotguns after learning that they tended to appreciate fast and were a safer bet than the stock market. Beginning with a small inheritance he’d received in his early twenties, he had been buying and trading shotguns for many years. He recommended a gun buyer in Dallas who could determine the collection’s value after his death.

  The second document was a brief letter to Tommy McGrath, Howard’s ex-partner. In it, Howard said he bore no ill will toward McGrath and that he knew his disgrace was the result of his own actions.

  And now the cancer’s got me, Tommy, or you wouldn’t be reading this, Howard wrote. I couldn’t tell you because I did not want you to pity me. I saw you with your young lady friend—you dog—and realized things were going better for you. You deserve better. May your life be long and fantastic. Remember me fondly—T.

  It didn’t sound like a man who was angry and ready to commit murder. To me and to Bree, it sounded like a man trying to make peace with himself and his old partner. If he’d killed McGrath and then committed suicide, why would he have left such a note? He’d obviously written it before McGrath’s death, so wouldn’t he have retrieved it and destroyed it before he killed himself? Or had he just forgotten it?

  The most cynical slice of me played with the idea that Howard had put the letter there as a way to throw us off the scent, but that didn’t make sense in light of the suicide. Wouldn’t he have left some kind of diatribe condemning McGrath?

  So maybe Howard didn’t commit suicide. In that scenario, whoever killed McGrath had also killed Howard and then framed the disgraced detective for McGrath’s murder.

  It wasn’t the perfect crime. But it was close. That is, if we could prove it.

  I got out of the shower and dried off. Bree came into the bathroom.

  “Chief Michaels is going to need harder evidence than that letter to officially reopen the case,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “Can you help grease the wheels at the gun house?”

  “Sure. How fast?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. By the way, how’d your day go?”

  I briefed her as I pulled on clothes.

  When I finished, she sighed. “So we’re no closer to finding Tommy’s k
iller or the road-rage shooter.”

  “Or the vigilantes, for that matter. Whoever they are.”

  Chapter

  62

  Thank God for Alex and Ned Mahoney, Bree thought the next afternoon as she and Muller hurried down a hallway to the Gun Room, the area of the FBI’s crime lab that was dedicated to the Firearms/Toolmarks Unit. The backlog for FBI testing was weeks long, and yet here they were in Quantico, marching in the front door on less than three hours’ notice.

  “We’re here to see Ammunition Specialist Noble,” Bree told the receptionist who was inspecting their visitors’ passes.

  The receptionist made a call, and several minutes later a petite woman in her late forties wearing a blue skirt, a white shirt, a white lab coat, and reading glasses on a chain came out to meet them.

  “Judith Noble,” she said crisply. “You have friends in high places, Chief Stone.”

  “We’re lucky,” Bree said. “And thank you for agreeing to help us.”

  “Not agreeing wasn’t an option,” she said coolly. “What can I do for you?”

  Bree handed over the evidence bag containing the .45-caliber bullets found in Howard’s storage unit as well as the bullets that had killed Howard, Tommy McGrath, and Edita Kravic.

  “We need a comparison done,” she said. “Just to make sure we’ve gotten all our ducks in a row.”

  The ammunition specialist glanced at her watch and nodded. “Long as things don’t get too complicated, I can do that.”

  Noble led them back to her workstation, which was immaculate.

  “How do you get any work done?” Muller said. “I need a proper mess to think straight.”

  The ammunition tech said, “Thank God you’re not in my field, Detective Muller. Defense attorneys would crucify you on the stand.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Firearms testing is like engineering,” Noble said, putting on gloves. “This is about precision, not chaos.”