"The strong, silent type?" Giametti smirked again. "That your act, big boy?"
Still not a word from Sampson. It went on that way for several minutes.
Giametti finally leaned forward, and he spoke in a quiet, serious voice. "Look, you know this is bullshit, right? No murder weapon. No body. I didn't clip any little Polack girl named Alexa. And Paulie is crazy. Trust me on that one. She's young in years, but she's no little girl. She was hooking in the old country. You know about that?"
Sampson finally spoke. "Here's what I know, and what I can prove. You were having sex with a fourteen-year-old in your own house."
Giametti shook his head. "She's not fourteen. She's a little whore. Anyway, I have something for you, something to trade. It's about a friend of yours – Alex Cross. You listening, Detective? Hear this. I know who killed his wife. I know where he is now too."
Chapter 39
JOHN SAMPSON GOT OUT of his car slowly, and he trudged along the familiar stone walkway, then up the front stairs of the Cross family house on Fifth Street.
He hesitated at the door, trying to collect his thoughts, to calm himself down if he could. This wasn't going to be easy, and no one would know this more than he did. He knew things about Maria Cross's murder that even Alex didn't.
Finally, he reached forward and rang the bell. He must have done this a thousand times in his life, but it never felt like it did now.
No good would come of this visit. Nothing good whatsoever. It might even end a long friendship.
A moment later, Sampson was surprised that it was Nana Mama who came to the door. The old girl was dressed in a flowery blue robe and looked even tinier than usual, like an ancient bird that ought to be worshipped. And in this house, she surely was, even by him.
"John, what's the matter now? What is it? I'm almost afraid to ask. Well, come inside, come inside. You'll scare all the neighbors."
"They're already scared, Nana," Sampson drawled, and attempted a smile. "This is Southeast, remember?"
"Don't try to make a joke out of this, John. Don't you dare. What are you here for?"
Sampson suddenly felt like he was a teenager again, caught in one of Nana's infamous stern glares. There was something so damn familiar about this scene. It reminded him of the time he and Alex got caught stealing records at Grady's while they were in middle school. Or the time they were smoking weed behind John Carroll High School and got busted by an assistant principal, and Nana had to come to get them released.
"I have to talk to Alex," Sampson said. "It's important, Nana. We need to wake him up."
"And why is that?" she tapped one extended foot and asked. "Quarter past three in the morning. Alex doesn't work for the city of Washington anymore. Why can't everybody just leave him be? You of all people, John Sampson. You know better than to come around here now, middle of the night, looking for his help again."
Sampson didn't usually argue with Nana Mama, but this time he did. "I'm afraid it can't wait, Nana. And I don't need Alex's help this time. He needs mine."
Then Sampson walked right past Nana and into the Cross house – uninvited.
Chapter 40
IT WAS ALMOST 4:00 A.M., and Sampson and I were riding back to the First District station house in his car. I was wide awake now, and wired. My nervous system felt like it was vibrating.
Maria's murderer? After all these years? Was it even a faint possibility that the killer could be caught more than ten years after my wife was shot down? The whole thing felt unreal to me. Back then, I'd been all over the case for a year, and I'd never completely given up the chase. And now we might suddenly find the killer? Was it possible?
We arrived at the station house on Fourth Street and hurried inside, neither of us talking. A precinct house during the night shift can be a lot like an emergency room: You never know what to expect when you step inside. This time, I didn't have a clue, but I couldn't wait to talk to Giametti.
It seemed unusually quiet when we walked in the front door – but that all changed in a hurry. It was obvious to both Sampson and me that something was wrong when we got down to the holding cells. Half a dozen detectives and uniforms were standing around. They looked way too alert and anxious for this time of morning. Something was definitely up.
Sampson's new partner, Marion Handler, spotted us and hustled over to John. Handler ignored me, and I did my best to pay him no mind, either. I'd talked to him a couple of times, and I thought the detective was a showy punk. I wondered why John put up with him the way he did.
Maybe he saw something in Handler that I didn't, or maybe Sampson was finally mellowing just a little.
"You're not gonna believe this shit. It's off the charts," he said to Sampson. "Somebody got to Giametti. I shit you not, Sampson. He's over there dead in his cell. Somebody got to him in here."
I was feeling numb all over as Handler led us back to the last holding cell on the block. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. First we had a lead on Maria's killer's whereabouts, and then the man who gave us that lead was murdered? In here?
"He even had a private room," Handler said to Sampson. "How could they get to him in here? Right under our noses?"
Sampson and I ignored the question as we stepped inside the last cell on the right. There were two evidence techies working around the body, but I could see all I needed to. An ice pick had been driven right up Gino Giametti's nose. It looked like the pick had been used to gouge out his eyes first. "See no evil," said Sampson in his deep, flat voice. "Has to be the mob."
Chapter 41
WHEN I GOT HOME later that morning, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep very well. So what was new about that? The kids were off at school, Nana was out; the house was quiet as a tomb.
Nana had put up another of her goofy "mistake" newspaper headlines on the fridge: Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Victim. Pretty funny, but I wasn't in the mood for smiles, even at the expense of journalists. I played the piano on the sunporch and drank a glass of red wine, but nothing seemed to help.
I could see Maria's face and hear her voice inside my head. I wondered, Why do we begin to forget, then sometimes remember with such clarity people we've lost? Everything about Maria, about our time together, seemed to have been stirred up inside me again.
Finally, around ten thirty, I made my way upstairs to my room. There had been too many days and nights like this. I would make my way up to bed and sleep there alone. What was that all about?
I lay down on the bed and shut my eyes, but I didn't really expect to sleep, just rest. I'd been thinking about Maria since I left the station house on Fourth Street. Some of the images I saw were of Maria and me when the kids were little – the good and the hard parts, too, not just selective memories of the sentimental stuff.
I tensed up in bed thinking about her, and I finally understood something useful about the present – that I wanted my life to make sense again. Simple enough, right? But could it still happen? Could I move on?
Well, maybe. There was somebody. Somebody I cared about enough to make some changes for. Or was I just fooling myself again? I finally drifted off into a restless, dreamless sleep, which was about as good as it got these days.
Chapter 42
ALL I HAD TO DO was move on, right? Make some intelligent changes in my life. I'd gotten rid of Maria's old junker and moved onward and upward to our cross-vehicle. What could be so hard about making some other changes? And why did I keep failing at it?
Alex has a big date, I told myself at various times during the following Friday. That's why I'd picked the New Heights Restaurant on Calvert Street over in Woodley Park. New Heights was a big-date sort of place. Dr. Kayla Coles was meeting me there after she finished work – early, by her standards anyway – at nine.