“Excellent,” Little said, pushing a piece of paper across the desk. “Now, I’m sure you are aware that among our student body are children whose parents are politically powerful, titans of finance, or celebrities.”

  “I am,” Soneji said, feeling a little rush.

  “That’s a nondisclosure agreement barring you from ever talking publicly about the students, with significant penalties if the contract is broken. Please date and sign, and I’ll take you on a little tour and introduce you to Mrs. Ravisky, whom you’ll be substituting for when she goes on maternity leave.”

  Soneji scanned the document and signed it. He had no issue with keeping the students’ private lives private.

  “Well, Mr. Soneji,” Little said, taking the paper and extending his hand, “welcome to the Washington Day family. You’ll be here Tuesdays and Thursdays starting this Thursday, with a full schedule of classes.”

  With his best country-club grin, Soneji pumped the headmaster’s hand. “I’m delighted.”

  Little led him on a tour of the facilities, which covered almost four acres in Georgetown, a campus of brick buildings, green lawns, and stately elms. As they walked, Headmaster Little praised Washington Day’s excellent academics, athletics, art, and theater.

  A bell rang as they entered one of the larger buildings that Little said held classrooms for grades nine through twelve. With the sea of students suddenly surging around them, Soneji tried to pay attention to all that Little was saying, but he found himself glancing at various teens, wondering who their parents were and whether they were famous.

  Soneji had long been fascinated by fame. His mother and grandmother always had issues of People magazine around the house, and they talked about celebrities and royalty as if they were all on a first-name basis.

  He thought about the Lindbergh case again and felt a thrill surge inside him. He remembered feeling like this after snatching Joyce Adams and bringing her to the old cabin in the Pine Barrens. He remembered how he felt when he overheard Conrad Talbot’s plans in a school hallway and formulated his own.

  Committing murder was often short and sweet, Soneji thought as he trailed Little up a staircase. But taking a captive—well, that was different, especially if you could grab a child of a high-profile parent. That would be the stuff of legend. That would mean fame of his own.

  “Mr. Soneji?”

  Soneji startled at the casual sound of his assumed name and realized they’d stopped outside a classroom.

  “Right here, sir,” he said and grinned at the headmaster, who was frowning.

  “This will be your classroom,” Little said. “Let’s meet Mrs. Ravisky, then I’ll leave you two to sort out your transition into Washington Day life.”

  Soneji increased the wattage on his smile one more time. “Nothing could make me happier, Mr. Little. Nothing.”

  CHAPTER 48

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS, I felt like we’d hit a stone wall on both the shootings and our investigation into Patrice Prince and his gang. About the only real progress was made by Detective Angelis in Fairfax County.

  Or, rather, by Virginia’s state crime lab on behalf of Angelis. An analysis of nylon fibers found in Brenda Miles’s neck abrasions had definitively identified the item used to strangle her as an MFP utility rope. Oddly, the rope analysis had also picked up blood traces that didn’t belong to the murdered real estate agent or to any other human. It was deer blood.

  When we told Chief Pittman about the lack of progress at our midweek staff meeting, he told us to shift our focus and put heat on Prince’s cousin Valentine Rodolpho in a way that would signal to the gang leader that we were not easing up on him or his crew.

  When we reminded the chief that undercover officer Nancy Donovan had asked us to lay off Rodolpho, Pittman said, “I have a little bit more experience than she does. I think you guys following him and hassling him a little could very well cause him to open up to her more. Or am I wrong on the psychology of this, Dr. Cross?”

  I thought about it. “You’re not wrong, Chief.”

  “There you go. Let’s see how Valentine responds to a little flame to the tush.”

  A half an hour later, we were in a squad car down the street from Rodolpho’s row house.

  Sampson was irritated. “Flame to the tush?” he said. “I don’t know about the chief sometimes.”

  “He has solid instincts and ten times more experience than both of us.”

  “Yeah, I get it. It’ll be two hours until Valentino shows. I’m going to grab a nap.”

  “Not this morning,” I said, gesturing toward the row house where Rodolpho was holding tight to the banister and limping down the stairs.

  A black Lincoln Town Car rolled up, and we were after him again. Only this time, there was no trip to the Haitian coffee shop or the warehouse in Maryland.

  The car took him to a known open-air drug market in Southeast DC, where we watched Rodolpho speak to a number of young guys who seemed to know him. He talked to them for fifteen minutes before getting back in the car and leaving.

  “I didn’t see any money or drugs changing hands,” Sampson said as I put the car in gear to follow.

  “Neither did I,” I said.

  Over the course of the next two hours, Rodolpho visited three more areas known for drug dealing and had several more brief conversations with various young men and women. Again, no drugs or money appeared to change hands.

  “I say we put a little flame to his tush,” I said when Prince’s cousin got out of the car for the fifth time and limped toward a group of young men outside a housing project in Gaithersburg, Maryland.

  “Let’s,” Sampson said, opening his door as soon as I’d parked.

  We rolled toward them, coats open, badges displayed on our belts. Rodolpho had his back to us, but his young friends saw us coming.

  One of them said something I didn’t catch, and they all bolted. Prince’s cousin turned and smiled, revealing a gold upper incisor.

  “Ah,” he said after glancing at our badges.

  “Why’d they run?”

  “A learned response,” he said in a thick Haitian accent.

  “Why didn’t you run, Valentino?” Sampson said.

  “Valentine,” Rodolpho said, his eyes going cold. “And I cannot run.”

  “We noticed that,” I said. “We also noticed you’ve spent the morning doing a whirlwind tour of known areas where hard drugs are sold.”

  “Did you?” Rodolpho said.

  “We did,” Sampson said. “What’s up with that, Valentino?”

  Rodolpho’s nostrils flared. “It is my give-back. I talk with the troubled youth, try to get them out of trouble before they are in bigger trouble.”

  I squinted at him skeptically. “You’re telling us you’re running some kind of street ministry?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  John said, “We’re not buying it, Valentino. You tell your cousin that despite his humanitarian work and your street ministry, we are not letting go of this. We know that you and Patrice were involved in the murders of Tony Miller and Shay Mansion, and no matter how long it takes, we are going to prove it.”

  If Rodolpho felt threatened, he did not show it. “Good luck, because I do not know who those people are. Unless we have further business, I will go—my ride is here. Do not bother to follow me. Next stop is for the physical therapy.”

  CHAPTER 49

  WE FOLLOWED VALENTINE RODOLPHO anyway. He did go to physical therapy, spent an hour there, then returned to his row house. We called off the surveillance at midnight and went home.

  We were back in the morning in time to see Rodolpho go to his favorite café, where he stayed for an hour. We watched a visibly angry Nancy Donovan leave the café first, followed fifteen minutes later by an even angrier Rodolpho, who gave us the finger as he hailed a taxi.

  This went on for two mind-numbing days. Rodolpho continued his daily trips to the café, though we did not see Officer Donovan again. By Saturday, figuring Rodolpho and Prince had gotten our message, we called off the stakeout.

  It was time to enlist the public’s help.

  That evening, Maria, Damon, and I had a nice dinner at an Italian place on Capitol Hill. The next morning, we met Sampson and Nana Mama before Mass.

  According to Nana Mama, ten o’clock Mass on Sunday at St. Anthony’s was always the best attended service of the week. While Maria, Damon, and Nana found seats, Sampson and I went to see Father Nathan Barry back in the vestibule. We admitted to Father Barry that we were making little headway on the investigation into Tony’s murder and I asked if I could appeal directly to the congregation for aid.

  Father Barry agreed, and before the parish announcements at the end of Mass, he called me up and introduced me: “Alex Cross, a longtime parishioner and now a detective with Metro PD.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I said as I stood behind the lectern. “As Father Barry said, I grew up attending this church, as did my partner, John Sampson.”

  I paused and saw many heads nodding. I pressed on with my plea.

  “Because we’re from here and because we still live here, we have taken the investigation into the murders of Tony Miller and Shay Mansion as a deeply personal mission. We have been working hard to solve these murders, but to be honest, we have not made the kind of progress we would like. We need your help.

  “As devastating as these killings were to the families of Tony and Shay, we have all been damaged by their murders. Two of our own young men were taken by what we believe was gang violence. For the mothers of these boys to get some kind of peace, their sons’ killers must be brought to justice. I believe this community needs that too.

  “If you know anything, please call me or John Sampson through the Metro main number. If you wish to remain anonymous, you can leave your information on the department’s tip line. Thank you.”

  I nodded to the parishioners and to Father Barry, then went back to my seat. Maria took my hand. Nana Mama whispered, “Well said.”

  Damon had fallen asleep in my grandmother’s arms. I winked at her and squeezed my wife’s hand, hoping my words had been enough to shake something loose. When the service was over, we left the church.

  I carried a still sleepy Damon down the church steps as many parishioners we’d known for years promised to help us in any way they could. Maria strolled over to my right to talk with Father Barry. Nana Mama was on my left, chatting with several old friends.

  “Think it was enough?” I said to Sampson as I shifted Damon in my arms.

  “Yeah,” he said, his head slowly craning around. “If someone in there knew something, I think we’ll hear about—”

  He stared past me, his eyes widening. “Gun!” he whispered. “Eleven o’clock on the street and coming at us, Alex!”

  I snapped my head around, saw a black Suburban heading our way. The rear passenger-side window was down, and a rifle barrel was sticking out.

  “Gun!” Sampson roared. “Everybody, down!”

  The gunman in the Suburban opened up, firing in bursts. Damon began to scream. A woman next to Sampson was hit, and panic took over.

  Ignoring my son’s screams, the shooting, and the people running, I took two steps, tackled Nana Mama to the ground, and used my body to shield her and Damon as bullets pinged off the concrete all around us. Then I heard shots coming from much closer, and I looked up to see Sampson squared off in a horse stance and pouring lead at the open rear window of the Suburban before it screeched off up the street.

  “You okay, Nana?” I gasped over Damon’s screeches.

  “If you get off me, I will be!”

  Maria!

  I jumped up with Damon still in my arms and looked around frantically. Sampson was gone, and several people who’d been standing close to us now lay bleeding on the sidewalk in front of the church.

  “Alex!”

  My terrified wife rushed toward me, blood spattered on her face and down the front of her maternity dress. She ran into my arms, sobbing. “They shot Father Barry! Right next to me. He’s dead!”

  The three of us stood there shaking, arms wrapped around each other.

  “I go home, Mama?” Damon cried. “I go home, Daddy?”

  “Soon, buddy,” I said to my son, feeling more vulnerable than I ever had. To my wife, I said, “We need to help the wounded. We can cry afterward. Okay?”

  Maria shuddered, then nodded and pulled away. I handed her Damon, whose crying had eased.

  Sirens wailed toward us as the first of the ambulances arrived.

  Sampson returned.

  “What the hell was that about?” I asked.

  “I think Prince got our message and decided to reply,” Sampson said.

  “You think we were the targets?”

  “Yeah, Alex, I do.”

  CHAPTER 50

  HURRYING BACK DOWNTOWN TO headquarters later that afternoon, I knew I was late for a briefing with chief of detectives George Pittman, who had been horrified to hear that a Catholic priest had been gunned down in front of his own church and outraged that Sampson and I might have been the true targets.

  While Pittman attended a sit-down with the chief of Metro about everything, I’d taken a walk with Ellen Bovers, the FBI agent who’d gotten us the CCTV footage of the white van.

  When I returned, Sampson was already at his desk. “Where you been?”

  “Out talking to my FBI friend. She tells me they’re becoming interested in Prince too.”

  “Good, because we’ve got a big problem.”

  I felt like we’d been constantly bombarded with big problems, one after another. The gang killings of two teens, the Bulldog murders, the drive-by shooting—and the slaying of Father Barry. How close my wife, my son, and my grandmother had all come to dying. How close I’d come.

  “Tell me,” I said wearily.

  “Donovan? The undercover officer? She’s missed her last few check-ins.”

  “She could be deep into something and unable to communicate.”

  “Or Rodolpho figured her out. Or Prince.”

  We were in Pittman’s office five minutes later. Kurtz and Diehl were there too, as was Lieutenant Stacey Lindahl, Donovan’s narcotics commander.

  “Shut the door,” Pittman said. “I want this kept quiet. I mean, if they’ll gun down a priest, they’ll do anything. Lieutenant? Can you bring us up to speed?”

  Lindahl nodded, looking deeply concerned. “Donovan last checked in three days ago. She is supposed to be in contact once every twenty-four hours.”

  “We saw her four days ago,” Sampson said. “At that café Rodolpho goes to all the time.”

  I nodded. “She seemed upset.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “She was angry that day when she checked in. She’d asked you to back off and yet you didn’t. Rodolpho told her you were following him.”

  Pittman held up his hands. “That was my call, Lieutenant. We wanted to send Prince a message that we were not giving up on the Miller and Mansion murders.”

  “I understand, Chief, but Donovan didn’t. She said she’d been getting closer to Rodolpho, but the surveillance spooked him. He’d gotten pissed with her and told her to leave.”

  “Like I said, my call,” Pittman said. “But now I’m asking, how do we handle this?”

  Lindahl said, “I’m concerned. But my gut says give her another day. She might be somewhere she can’t communicate from. Or she’s on the verge of something big and trying not to do anything to jeopardize it.”

  Detective Kurtz said, “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you could also assume Donovan’s cover is blown, haul in every known member of LMC Fifty-One, and put the squeeze on them, bottom up, until we find her.”

  Diehl said, “I agree. There’s a cop involved. They know the penalties. Someone will talk.”

  Pittman thought for several moments. “I spoke with the commissioner right before I came here. He knows she’s missing and said that we were to prioritize her welfare, not the undercover operation.”

  Lindahl looked somewhat unhappy about that but agreed. “Okay, there it is, then. I’ll get you a list of all known members of LMC Fifty-One in the greater DC area, along with last known addresses and aliases.”

  I said, “Can I make a suggestion? Before you start hauling them in, put a few teams outside Rodolpho’s, at that café, at the crab-boil place Prince loves in Chesapeake Beach, and at the warehouse in Davidsonville.”

  “Good idea, Cross,” Kurtz said. “Be in position if the rats start abandoning ship.”

  Sampson raised his hand, said, “Since we found the place, we’d like to be in Davidsonville. See what they’re doing in there.”

  Pittman thought about that. “I don’t know if we have enough to warrant a search.”

  Diehl said, “Really? They tried to kill two of our people, they murdered a priest, they’ve done God knows what to Donovan, and it’s not enough?”

  The chief said, “Problem is, Detective, no witnesses saw who was behind the gun at St. Anthony’s, and the car with the license plate Sampson reported had been stolen.”

  John said, “That Suburban will have at least three of my bullets in it.”

  “I’m sure,” Pittman said. “But until we know for certain that LMC Fifty-One was behind the shooting or Donovan’s disappearance or both, best we can do is put surveillance teams in place and start bringing them in. Let’s build the pressure fast until something pops.”

  Part Four

  * * *

  REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD

  CHAPTER 51

  EARLY IN THE EVENING on Monday, three days before he was to start his new job at Washington Day School, Gary Soneji could not take it anymore. The hunger, the desperate need, had been building in him ever since his big fight with Missy.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27