Alex Cross: Cross Justice Part 1

Alex Cross.

Cross Justice.

Patterson, James.

ABOUT THE BOOK.

ALEX CROSS IS GOING HOME.

BUT WHAT WILL HE FIND WHEN HE GETS THERE?.

When his cousin is accused of an unthinkable crime, Alex Cross returns to his North Carolina hometown for the first time in over three decades. As he tries to prove his cousin's innocence in a town where justice is hard to find, Cross unearths a family secret that forces him to question everything he's ever known.

Chasing a ghost he believed was long dead, Cross gets pulled into a case involving a string of murders.

Now he's hot on the trail of both a cold-hearted killer and the truth about his own past and the answers he finds could be fatal.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. Since winning the Edgar Award for Best First Novel with The Thomas Berryman Number, his books have sold in excess of 300 million copies worldwide and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past eight years in a row. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades the Alex Cross, Women's Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

James is pa.s.sionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books specifically for young readers. James is a founding partner of Booktrust's Children's Reading Fund in the UK.

Also by James Patterson.

THE WOMEN'S MURDER CLUB SERIES.

1st to Die * 2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross) * 3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross) * 4th of July (with Maxine Paetro) * The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro) * The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro) * 7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro) * 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro) * 9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro) * 10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro) * 11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro) * 12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro) * Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro) * 14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro) * 15th Affair (with Maxine Paetro, to be published February 2016) DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT SERIES.

Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge) * Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge) * Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge) * Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge) * I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge) * Gone (with Michael Ledwidge) * Burn (with Michael Ledwidge) * Alert (with Michael Ledwidge) PRIVATE NOVELS.

Private (with Maxine Paetro) * Private London (with Mark Pearson) * Private Games (with Mark Sullivan) * Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) * Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan) * Private Down Under (with Michael White) * Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan) * Private India (with Ashwin Sanghi) * Private Vegas (with Maxine Paetro) * Private Sydney (with Kathryn Fox) * Private Paris (with Mark Sullivan, to be published January 2016) NYPD RED SERIES.

NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp) * NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp) * NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp).

STAND-ALONE THRILLERS.

Sail (with Howard Roughan) * Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro) * Don't Blink (with Howard Roughan) * Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund) * Toys (with Neil McMahon) * Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge) * Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp) * Guilty Wives (with David Ellis) * Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge) * Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan) * Mistress (with David Ellis) * Invisible (with David Ellis) * The Thomas Berryman Number * Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan) * Murder House (with David Ellis) NON-FICTION.

Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman) * The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard).

ROMANCE.

Sundays at Tiffany's (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) * The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo) * First Love (with Emily Raymond).

OTHER t.i.tLES.

Miracle at Augusta (with Peter de Jonge).

FAMILY OF PAGE-TURNERS.

MIDDLE SCHOOL BOOKS.

The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts) * Get Me Out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts) * My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (with Lisa Papademetriou) * How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill (with Chris Tebbetts) * Ultimate Showdown (with Julia Bergen) * Save Rafe! (with Chris Tebbetts) * Just My Rotten Luck (with Chris Tebbetts) I FUNNY SERIES.

I Funny (with Chris Grabenstein) * I Even Funnier (with Chris Grabenstein) * I Totally Funniest (with Chris Grabenstein) * I Funny TV (with Chris Grabenstein, to be published January 2016) TREASURE HUNTERS SERIES.

Treasure Hunters (with Chris Grabenstein) * Danger Down the Nile (with Chris Grabenstein) * Secret of the Forbidden City (with Chris Grabenstein).

HOUSE OF ROBOTS SERIES.

House of Robots (with Chris Grabenstein) * Robots Go Wild! (with Chris Grabenstein, to be published December 2015).

OTHER ILl.u.s.tRATED t.i.tLES.

Kenny Wright: Superhero (with Chris Tebbetts) * Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou).

MAXIMUM RIDE SERIES.

The Angel Experiment * School's Out Forever * Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports * The Final Warning * Max * Fang * Angel * Nevermore * Forever CONFESSIONS SERIES.

Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) * The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro) * The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro) * The Murder of an Angel (with Maxine Paetro) WITCH & WIZARD SERIES.

Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) * The Gift (with Ned Rust) * The Fire (with Jill Dembowski) * The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski) * The Lost (with Emily Raymond) DANIEL X SERIES.

The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge) * Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust) * Demons and Druids (with Adam Sadler) * Game Over (with Ned Rust) * Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein) * Lights Out (with Chris Grabenstein) GRAPHIC NOVELS.

Daniel X: Alien Hunter (with Leopoldo Gout) * Maximum Ride: Manga Vols. 18 (with NaRae Lee).

For more information about James Patterson's novels, visit www.jamespatterson.co.uk.

Or become a fan on Facebook.

Prologue.

I FEEL PRETTY ....

One.

LEAVING THE BODY Submerged in the bathtub, Coco entered the enormous walk-in closet wearing black silk panties, elbow-length black gloves, and nothing else. Trained eyes flickered past the casual wear, all fine clothing, to be sure, but not what Coco desired.

Couture gowns. Sleek evening wear. The drama and seductiveness of elegant pieces pulled Coco like a magnet draws iron. Expert eyes and clever gloved fingers examined a mouse-gray, off-the-shoulder dress by Christian Dior and then a white Gucci gown with a plunging back.

Coco thought the designs were brilliant, but the workmanship was not as precise, the execution not as taut, as one would expect for dresses with price tags of ten thousand dollars and up. Even at the high end of luxury, the craft of dressmaking was suffering these days, the old skills all but forgotten. A pity. A shame. An outrage, as Coco's long-departed mother would have said.

Still, both dresses went into a garment bag for future use.

Coco pushed more gowns aside, looking for the one dress that jumped out, the one that stirred deep emotion, the one that made you say, "Ahhh, yes. That's my dream. My fantasy. That's who I'll be tonight!"

A c.o.c.ktail dress by Elie Saab finally ended the search. Size 6. Perfect. Deep indigo, silk, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline and a diamond cutout in the back, it was spectacularly retro-late fifties, early sixties, right out of wardrobe for Mad Men.

Calling Mr. Draper; you may drool now.

Coco giggled, but there was nothing funny about this dress. It was a frock of legend, the kind that could silence all conversation in a three-star Michelin restaurant or a ballroom packed with the rich, the powerful, and the celebrated, the rare type of dress that seemed to have its own gravitational field and was able to draw l.u.s.t from every male and envy from every woman within a hundred yards.

Coco pulled it off the rack, went to the full-length mirrors at the far end of the walk-in closet, and paused there for a bit of self-appraisal. Tall, lean, with a cover girl's face and a dancer's regal stance, Coco noted the oval hazel eyes and the flawless skin. Add to that the barest suggestion of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the slim boyish hips, and if the world weren't so cruel, this sultry creature would have been the toast of runways from Paris to Milan.

Coco stared for a moment in frustration at the only thing that had blocked a dream life as a glamorous supermodel. Despite the tape strapped beneath the black panties, there was still little doubt that Coco was a man.

Two.

CAREFUL NOT TO smudge his makeup, Coco tugged the Elie Saab over his smooth, bald head and feminine shoulders, praying that the flow of the dress would hide any outward evidence of his masculinity.

His prayers were answered. When Coco smoothed the fabric so it clung to his hips and upper thighs, even with the bald head, he was, to all appearances, a stunning woman.

Coco found sheer black thigh-high stockings and slid them on carefully, sensually, before proceeding to the racks of shoes by the mirrors. He stopped counting at two hundred pairs.

What was Lisa, the reincarnation of Imelda Marcos?

He laughed and chose a pair of black stiletto heels by Sergio Rossi. The fit in the closed toe was a bit tight, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do when it came to fashion.

After tightening the gladiator straps and getting his balance, Coco exited the walk-in closet and entered the gigantic master suite. He ignored the exquisite decor and went straight to a large jewelry box on the vanity.

After rejecting several items, he found a set of Tahitian pearl earrings and a matching necklace from Cartier that complemented but in no way overpowered the dress. As his mother used to say: Know your focus, then accessorize around it.

He put the pearls on and picked up the Fendi shopping bag he'd set down by the vanity earlier. He pushed aside tissue paper, ignoring the folded polo shirt, the jeans, and the docksiders, and drew out an oval box.

Coco removed the lid, revealing a wig. It was more than fifty years old but had been maintained in flawless condition. The hair was lush, human, and not dyed, an ash shade of blond. Every strand retained its natural shine, bounce, and texture.

He sat down at the vanity, reached back into the shopping bag, and found a short strip of rug tape. With scissors from the vanity drawer, he snipped the tape into four pieces, each about an inch long. His teeth tugged off one of the long black gloves.

He stripped off the backing of each piece of tape and dropped the papers into the Fendi bag. Then he fixed the pieces of tape to his scalp, one at the crown, another three inches forward of center, and one above each ear.

After putting the glove back on, Coco removed the wig from the box, looked in the mirror, and eased it onto his head and into position on the tape, just so. He sighed with pleasure.

To Coco's eye, the wig looked every bit as dramatic as it had the first time he'd seen it, decades before. It had been styled by a master in Paris who had parted the hair down the middle, cut the back high, and then tapered the length so the forward locks on both sides were longest. The hair framed Coco's face in a teardrop that ended just below the jawline and just above the pearl necklace.

Highly pleased with his ensemble, Coco touched up his lip-stick and smiled seductively at the woman staring back at him.

"You are gorgeous tonight, my dear," he said, delighted. "A work of art."

With a wink at his reflection, Coco stood up from the vanity and started to sing. "'I feel pretty, oh so pretty.'"

As he sang, his practiced eye returned to the jewelry box, and he plucked out several promising pieces that featured large emeralds. He put them in the Fendi bag and returned to the closet. There he pushed aside a rack of men's starched shirts to reveal a safe with a digital keypad.

Coco typed in the code from memory and opened the safe, happy to find ten four-inch stacks of fifty-dollar bills. He loaded them all into the Fendi bag and closed the safe, then he stuffed the bag and its contents into the bottom of the garment bag, zipped it up, and tossed it over his shoulder.

On the way out of the closet, Coco picked up a set of keys. He spotted a geometric, black-and-gold Badgley Mischka Alba clutch purse and s.n.a.t.c.hed it off the shelf. What luck!

He put the keys inside.

Out in the suite, he hesitated, then went back into the bathroom, which was the size of a small house, calling, "Lisa, dear, I'm afraid it's time I go."

Coco tilted his head toward his left shoulder, gazing in interest and sadness at the brunette woman in the tub. Lisa's dead turquoise eyes were bugged out, and her collagen-injected lips stretched wide, as if her jaw had been fused open when the plugged-in Bose acoustic radio had hit the bathwater. Amazing in this day and age-what with sophisticated technology and circuit breakers and all-that home electricity and bathwater still created enough of a jolt to stop a heart.

"I must say, girlfriend, you had much better taste than I ever gave you credit for," Coco said to the corpse. "When it came right down to it, after a brief inventory of your wardrobe, I see you had the money and you spent it reasonably well. And from the bottom of my heart? You are beautiful even in death. Brava, my dear. Brava."

He blew her a kiss, turned, and left the room.

Coco moved with purpose through the mansion, padding down the spiral staircase into the foyer. It was late in the day, almost dusk, and the setting Florida sun threw a golden glow through the windows, illuminating an oil painting on the far wall.

Coco thought the artist had rendered Lisa in all her glory, capturing her at the height of her feminine power, elegance, and ripeness. No one could change that. Ever. From this day forth, Lisa would be the woman in the painting, not that lifeless husk upstairs.

He exited through the front doors and stepped out onto a circular driveway. It was late June and insufferably hot inland. But here, so close to the ocean, a breeze blew, making the air quite pleasant.

Coco walked down the drive, past Lisa's perfectly tended gardens, lush with tropical color and scented with orchids blooming. Wild parrots cackled from their roosts in the palm trees when he pushed a b.u.t.ton on the gate and it swung open.

He walked for a block past well-manicured lawns and handsome homes, reveling in the clicking noise the stilettos made on the sidewalk and in the feel of the silk dress swishing against his silk-clad thighs.