Alex Cross: Cross Justice Part 6

"How could I say no to such a kind offer from such a darling young lady?" he replied, smiling.

He knew he looked ridiculous in the crown she'd made him wear. But he was so entranced by the girl that he didn't care. Her skin was the color of fresh cream, and her eyes shone like polished sapphires. He watched her pour the tea into his cup so delicately it made him want to cry.

"Sugar?" she asked, setting the pot down.

"Two lumps," he said.

She dropped two cubes in his cup and one in her own.

"Milk?"

"Not today, Lizzie," he said, reaching for his cup.

Lizzie s.n.a.t.c.hed up a pink wand, reached out, and tapped his hand with it. "Wait. I have to make sure there are no evil spirits around."

His brow knit and he drew back his hand. The little girl closed her eyes, smiled, and waved her wand. His heart melted to see her caught up in fantasy the way only a four-year-old can be.

Lizzie opened her mouth-to deliver a spell, no doubt.

But before she could, there was a knock behind him.

Irritated at the interruption, the man turned, and the crown fell off his head, irritating him further. A muscular bald white guy in his thirties stood in the doorway, fighting not to show his amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Can this wait, Meeks?" the man asked. "Lizzie and I are having tea."

"I can see that, boss, but you've got a call," Meeks said. "It's urgent."

"Grandfather, you haven't had your tea and cookie," the little girl protested.

"Grandfather will be back as soon as he's done," he said, groaning as he got to his feet.

"When will that be?" she demanded, crossing her arms and pouting.

"Quick as I can," he promised.

Grandfather walked to Meeks, who was still smirking, and said, "Fill in for me."

The smirk disappeared. "What?"

"Sit down, have some tea, and eat a crumpet with my granddaughter. But you can't wear the crown."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Acting like he'd rather put a fishhook through his thumb, Meeks nodded and went to the table, where Lizzie was grinning brightly.

"Sit down, Mr. Meeks," she said graciously. "Have some tea while you're waiting for Grandfather to come back."

Lizzie's grandfather grinned for all sorts of reasons as he walked down a long hallway and into a richly furnished library office. He ignored the books that filled the shelves. They were all his wife's idea. He hadn't read a tenth of them, but they looked good when guests came by.

He picked up a cheap cell phone sitting on the desk, said, "Talk."

"We have problems," said a man with a deep, hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Tell me."

"She's not listening to reason," he said. "She's talking."

Lizzie's grandfather squinted, calculated. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"How do you want it handled?"

"We'll take care of it."

This surprised him. "Are you sure? There are others we can turn to."

"Our mess. We'll handle it."

Grandfather accepted the decision, set it aside, said, "Other problems?"

"Naomi Cross threw in a wild card. Brought in her uncle. Alex Cross. Google him. ExFBI profiler, now a homicide detective in Washington, DC."

"Reputation?"

"Formidable."

Grandfather factored that into his thinking. "We're clean otherwise?"

"As it stands, yes."

"Then we don't have a choice. Take care of that situation as you see fit."

A moment pa.s.sed before the man on the other end said, "Agreed."

"Talk to me when it's done."

Grandfather hung up and destroyed the phone. Then he left the office and walked back down the hallway, eager for tea with little Lizzie.

Part Two

A FASHION STATEMENT.

CHAPTER 13.

Palm Beach, Florida

"'I FEEL PRETTY, oh so pretty,'" Coco sang softly as he looked in the mirror, aware of the dead woman in a black nightgown hanging by her neck from the chandelier behind him but much more focused on a.s.sessing the new outfit.

The tangerine linen skirt hugged his hips sublimely. The matching jockey coat was snug through the shoulders, but workable. The Dries van Noten high-heeled sling-backs were a bit toe-crunching. The Carolina Herrera silk taffeta blouse was simply remarkable. And the pearl earrings and choker? Just the right air of sophistication.

All he needed now was the right do.

Coco reached into the box and came up with a lush, shoulder-length, radiant amber wig. It was old, early 1970s, if he remembered correctly. His mother would have known the exact date, of course, but no matter. Once settled on the two-sided tape with the last strands of hair combed into place, the wig made Coco look like another person altogether.

Mysterious. s.e.xy. Alluring. Unreachable.

"I name you Tangerine Dream, Queen of the Garden Party," Coco cooed to the woman staring back at him. "A vision of ..."

He turned and looked at the pet.i.te dead woman dangling by a drapery cord from the chandelier. "Ruth? What would you say? I'm thinking a cross between Julianne Moore in Boogie Nights and Ginger on Gilligan's Island-the haircut, anyway. Am I right, or am I just a foolish little girl?"

Coco giggled ever so softly before picking up the Prada shopping bag and other goodies pilfered from Ruth's collection. He started to leave the master suite, then paused to listen. Though he knew that the staff had been given the day off and that Ruth's husband, Dr. Stanley Abrams, aka "the b.o.o.b King of West Palm," was in Zurich attending a medical symposium, it still paid to be careful.

Sure of himself now, Coco pushed on down a gallery rich with artwork, although the only piece he stopped to look at was an oil painting of the deceased. There you are, he thought, studying Ruth's beauty. Caught at the moment of your ripeness, my dear, a gift to the universe.

Ruth and Stanley's home was enormous and entirely too modern for Coco's taste. But then again, what would you expect from the house that fake t.i.ts built? There was a great deal to be said for cla.s.sic understatement, he believed.

As his mother liked to say: When it comes to your art, Coco, and fashion is art, take your motif to the limit and then back off several degrees.

Coco walked through a kitchen big enough to host an episode of Iron Chef and went down a hallway to a steel door. He checked the security system, got a white dust cloth from his bag, and covered his fingers with it before punching in the code. Five seconds later, he shut the garage door and waited for the electronic voice to tell him the system was armed.

The garage had four bays. The near one was empty. The second held Ruth's Mercedes, and the third her husband's Maserati. Coco's beloved Aston Martin occupied the fourth bay. But before going to it, he reached into the Mercedes and removed the garage-door remote.

He backed the Aston out onto a colored concrete area, exited the car, pressed the remote, then wiped it down. When the garage door started to lower, he lobbed it inside, satisfied when it skittered to a halt a few feet from the Mercedes.

Someone intent on suicide would not bother to pick that up, would she? Coco was confident this was the case. He drove out through the security gates of Ruth and Stanley Abrams's ma.s.sive waterfront estate. Then he realized that the ladies of Palm Beach would already be gathering for c.o.c.ktails. Maybe he'd go stroll by Oli's Fashion Cuisine.

Would anyone recognize him at Oli's? He was thrilled at his audacity, his taste for high-stakes games.

Let's do it, girlfriend. Let's really shake it up.

Ten minutes later, Coco parked the Aston Martin a few blocks away from his target zone. The vintage sports car was a risk, he knew. But he adored it, so it often caused him to act impulsively, demanding his attention when the Lexus would have done just fine.

Next time you'll stay home, Coco thought and put on a pair of retro white-and-oval-framed sungla.s.ses. He set off up the sidewalk, walking the way his mother had taught him, with his shoulders back, his head high, and his hips swaying like a pendulum.

The first man he encountered was a jogger in his fifties. Coco could feel his degenerate eyes looking over the Tangerine Dream. The second man, a Euro in yachting garb, dropped his sungla.s.ses to gape openly.

That's it, girl, Coco thought, putting just a little more sway in the booty for the Euro who'd no doubt turned to watch after the dream. Ahead, the yellow tables outside Oli's were already filled with a stylish happy-hour crowd.

He took a breath, thought: Mysterious, now. s.e.xy. Alluring. Un.o.btainable.

That's it, Coco. You've got it all.

Now flaunt it all.

He made his walk even more provocative, swaying his hips back and forth.

Coco raised his chin a degree as he pa.s.sed the restaurant, ignoring the scene but aware of patrons twisting to look after him. He almost laughed to cause so much mistaken l.u.s.t and envy.

CHAPTER 14.

Starksville, North Carolina

THOUGH EVERYONE HAD heard the judge's order loud and clear, it was well into the afternoon before two deputies brought my cousin, wearing leg shackles and handcuffs locked to a leather belt around his waist, into an interrogation room. Even through the bruises and swelling, I could see Stefan Tate took after our mothers' side of the family. He was in his early thirties, tall and heavy-boned like me and like Damon. And we all had the same jawline.

I flashed on an image of him as a little boy, running around Nana Mama's yard during one of Aunt Hattie's infrequent trips to Washington. He'd had this infectious laugh, and it seemed like he thought everything was a mystery and an adventure.

"Alex," Stefan said thickly as he sat down. "Glad you came."

I nodded, said nothing.

"Leave his wrists cuffed, but release them from the belt," Naomi said. "He may need to use his hands. And turn off all cameras and microphones."

"Already done on the cameras and mikes," an officer said. "But there is zero chance we're letting him use his hands."