Chapter 19
A NYWAY, IT WAS SATURDAY. I was off from work. No crime and punishment today. No psychopaths on the horizon, at least none that I knew about yet.
The Cross “family car” these days was an ancient Toyota Corolla that had been Maria’s. Other than the obvious sentimental value, and its longevity, I didn’t think much of the vehicle. Not in terms of form or function ? not the off-white paint job, not the various pockmarks on the trunk and hood. The kids had given me a couple of bumper stickers for my last birthday ? I May Be Slow, but I’m Still Ahead of You and Answer My Prayer, Steal This Car. They didn’t like the Corolla, either.
So on that bright and sunny Saturday, I took Jannie, Damon, and little Alex out to do some car shopping.
As we rode along, Twista was on the CD player, “Overnight Celebrity,” followed by Kanye West’s “All Falls Down.” All the while, the kids never stopped making wild and crazy suggestions about the new car we needed to buy.
Jannie was interested in a Range Rover ? but that wasn’t going to happen for all sorts of good reasons. Damon was trying to talk me into a motorcycle, which of course he would get to use when he turned eighteen in four years, which was so absurd it didn’t even get a response from me. Not unless a grunt qualifies as communication nowadays.
Little Alex, or Ali, was open to any model of car, as long as it was red or bright blue. Intelligent boy, and that just could work as a plan, except for the “red” or “bright” part.
So we stopped at the Mercedes dealer out in Arlington, Virginia, which wasn’t that far from the house. Jannie and Damon ogled a silver CLK500 Cabriolet convertible, while Ali and I tested out the spacious front seat of an R350. I was thinking family car ? safety, beauty, resale value. Intellect and emotion.
“I like this one,” Ali said. “It’s blue. It’s beautiful. Just right.”
“You have excellent taste in automobiles, buddy. This is a six-seater, and what seats they are. Look up at that glass roof. Must be five feet or so.”
“Beautiful,” Ali repeated.
“Stretch out. Look at all this leg room, little man. This is an automobile.”
A salesperson named Laurie Berger had been at our side the whole time without being pushy or unnecessarily obtrusive. I appreciated that. God bless Mercedes.
“Questions?” she asked. “Anything you want to know?”
“Not really, Laurie. You sit in this R350, you want to buy it.”
“Makes my job kind of easy. We also have one in obsidian black, ash upholstery. They call the R350 a crossover vehicle, Dr. Cross. The station wagon meets the SUV.”
“And combines the best of both,” I said, and smiled congenially.
My pager went off then, and I groaned loud enough to draw stares.
Not on Saturday! And not during car shopping. Not while I was sitting in this beautiful Mercedes R350.
“Uh-oh,” said Ali, and his eyes went wide. “Daddy’s pager!” he called loudly across the showroom to Damon and Jannie. “Daddy’s pager went off.”
“You squealed on me. You’re a dirty, rotten squealer,” I said, then kissed him on the top of his head. This is something I do at least a half a dozen times a day, every day.
He giggled and slapped my arm and giggled some more. He always got my jokes. No wonder the two of us got along so well.
Only this pager message probably wasn’t funny. Not in the least. I recognized the number immediately, and I didn’t think it would be good news.
Ned Mahoney from Hostage Rescue? Maybe inviting me to a barbecue and dance out at Quantico? Probably not a barbecue though.
I called Ned back on my cell. “This is Alex Cross. I got your call, Ned. Why did I get your call?”
Ned got right to it. “Alex, you know Kentucky Avenue, near Fifteenth in Southeast?”
“Of course I do. It’s not too far from my house. But I’m out in Arlington right now. I’m with the kids. We’re looking to buy a new family car. Can you say family, Ned?”
“Meet me there, Kentucky and Fifteenth. I need your help, your local knowledge. I don’t want to say too much more on my cell.” Ned told me a couple more details ? but not all of it. Why was that? What was he keeping to himself?
Oh man, oh man, oh man . “How soon? I’m with my kids, Ned.”
“Sorry about that. My team will be there in about ten, fifteen minutes at the most. I’m not kidding, all hell’s broken loose, Alex.”
Of course it had. Why else would the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team be involved inside Washington city limits? And why else would Ned Mahoney call me on a Saturday afternoon?
“What’s up?” Ali looked at me and asked.
“I have to go to a barbecue.” I think I’m the main course on the spit, little man.