Bree answered, said, “Rock Creek an accident?”
“Murder,” I said. “But FYI, Michaels just moved us to Georgetown. Two shooting victims. I’m afraid one is Tommy McGrath.”
There was a long stunned silence before Bree choked out, “Oh Jesus, Alex. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Exactly my response. Anything I should know?”
“About Tommy? I’m not sure. He and his wife separated a while back.”
“Reasons?”
“We didn’t talk about personal stuff, but I could tell he was quietly upset about it. And about the fact that the new job kept him from working cases. He said he missed the streets.”
“I’ll keep it all in mind, and I’ll text you when we get on the scene.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m going to have a cry.”
She hung up, and my stomach felt sour all over again because I knew how much Tom McGrath meant to her. McGrath had been DC Metro’s controversial chief of detectives and our boss. But back when Bree was a junior-grade detective, and McGrath was still working cases, he had taken her under his wing and guided her, even served as her partner for a brief time. He’d mentored her as she rose in the ranks and was the one who’d recommended that she move to the major cases.
As the COD, McGrath was a competent and fair administrator, I thought. He could be tough, and he played politics at times, the kind of cop who made enemies. One of his former partners even thought McGrath had turned on him, planting evidence and driving him from the force.
As a detective, though, Tommy had keen instincts. He was also genuinely curious about people and a good listener, and as I drove across the city toward his death scene, I realized I would miss him a great deal.
There were patrol cars with flashing blue lights, uniformed cops, and barriers closing off the 3200 block of Wisconsin Avenue. We parked down the street, and I took a moment to steel myself for what I was about to see and do.
I’ve spent years as an investigator with the FBI and with DC Metro, so I have been to hundreds of murder scenes, and I usually go to work inside a suit of psychological armor that keeps me at an emotional distance from all victims. But this was Tommy McGrath. One of the brethren was down, one of the good guys, and that put chinks in my armor. It made this all personal, and when I’m dealing with murder, I don’t like it to be personal. Rational, observant, and analytical—that’s my style.
I got out of the unmarked car trying to be that detached observer. When I reached the bloody scene, however, and saw McGrath in his workout shorts and T-shirt lying next to a beautiful woman in yoga gear, both of them dead of multiple gunshot wounds, the cold, rational Alex Cross took a hike. This was personal.
“I liked McGrath,” Sampson said, his face as hard and dark as ebony. “A lot.”
A patrolman approached and laid out for us what seemed to have happened based on the initial statements he’d taken from witnesses. They said the car had come rolling toward McGrath and the woman. There were shots, three and then two. On that, all the witnesses agreed.
McGrath was hit first, then Jane Doe. Chaos ensued, as it always does when there’s gunfire involved, witnesses diving out of the way, trying to find cover or safety, which is entirely understandable. Folks have the right to survive, but fear and panic make my job harder, because I have to be sure those emotions don’t cloud their judgments or taint their memories.
The witnesses were waiting for us inside the Whole Foods, but before I went in, I walked the perimeter of the scene, seeing the organic goods strewn about the bodies: fresh produce, beeswax candles, and two broken bottles of kombucha tea.
Lying in the gutter about ten feet from the corpses was a bottle of Cliffton Dry, some kind of bubbly apple wine, which I thought was odd.
“What are you seeing, Alex?” Sampson asked.
I shrugged, said, “I thought Tommy McGrath always drank Bud.”
“So it’s her bottle. They together?”
“Bree said McGrath and his wife were separated.”
“Divorce is always a possible motive in a murder,” Sampson said. “But this looks gangland to me.”
“Does it?” I asked. “This wasn’t the normal spray-a-hail-ofbullets- and-hope-you-hit-something killing. This was precision shooting. Five shots fired. Five hits.”
We looked over at the woman, who lay on her side at an awkward angle.
I noticed the fanny pack, put on gloves, and knelt down to open it.
IN ADDITION TO three hundred dollars in fifties, the fanny pack contained a student ID card from American University’s law school and a District of Columbia driver’s license, both in the name of Edita Kravic. She was three days shy of her thirtysecond birthday and didn’t live far from the Whole Foods store.
I also found two business cards emblazoned with the phoenix club—the new normal, whatever that meant; according to the cards, Edita Kravic worked there as a Level 2 Certified Coach, whatever that meant. Below the club’s name was a Virginia phone number and an address in Vienna, near Wolf Trap.
I stood up, thinking, Who were you, Edita Kravic? And what were you to Chief of Detectives McGrath?
Sampson and I went inside the Whole Foods and found the shaken witnesses. Three of them said they’d seen the entire event.
Melanie Winters, a checkout clerk, said the victims had just been in the store, laughing and joking with each other.Winters said they’d seemed good together, Tom and Edita Kravic, like they had chemistry, although McGrath had complained in the checkout line about her not letting him buy beer.
I glanced at Sampson. “What did I say?”
As McGrath and Kravic left, the checker said, she started moving empty produce boxes by the front window. She was looking outside when a dark blue sedan rolled up with the windows down and bullets started flying. Winters dived to the floor and stayed there until the gunfire stopped and the car squealed away.
“How many people in the car?” Sampson said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just saw these flashes and heard the shots.”
“Where were the flashes?” I said. “Front seat or back or both?”
She winced. “I’m not sure.”
Lucas Phelps, a senior at Georgetown, had been outside, about half a block south of the store. Phelps had been listening to a podcast over his Beats headphones when the shooting started. The student thought it was part of the program he was listening to until he saw McGrath and Kravic fall.
“What kind of car?” Sampson said.
“I’m not good at that,” Phelps said. “A four-door car? Like, dark-colored?”
“How many people in the car?” I asked.
“Two, I think,” Phelps said. “From my angle, it was kind of hard to say.”
“You see flashes from the shots?”
“Sure, now that you mention it.”
“Where were the flashes coming from? Front seat, back, or both?”
“Front,” he said. “I think. It all happened so fast.”
The third witness, Craig Brooks, proved once again that triangulation is often the best way to the truth. The seventy-two-year-old retired U.S. Treasury agent had been coming down the sidewalk from the north, heading toWhole Foods to get some “gluten-free crap” his wife wanted, when the shooting started.
“There were three people in that car, and one shooting out the window from the front seat, a Remington 1911 S, forty-five caliber.”
“How do you know that?” Sampson asked.
“I saw the gun, and there’s a fresh forty-five casing out there by the curb.”
I followed his gesture and nodded. “You touch it?”
“Not stupid.”
“Appreciate it. Make of the car? Model? License plate?”
“It was a GM of some sort, four-door, dark-colored but flat, no finish, like primer. They’d stripped it of any identifiers and covered the license plate too.”
“Male? Female?”
“They were all wearing ball caps and
black masks,” Brooks said. “I got a clear look at the shooter’s cap, though, as they went by me. Red with the Redskins logo on it.”
We took phone numbers for possible follow-up, and I walked back outside. By then a team of criminalists had arrived and were documenting the scene.
I stopped to look at it all again now that we’d been given three versions of how the shooting had gone down. I could see it unfold in my mind.
“The shooter was more than good—he was trained,” I said.
“Gimme that again,” Sampson said.
“He’d have to be a pro to be able to shoot from a vehicle going fifteen to twenty miles an hour and still hit moving targets five out of five times.”
“The difficulty depends on the angle, doesn’t it?” Sampson said. “Where he started shooting and when, but I agree—he practiced for this scenario.”
“And McGrath was the primary target. The shooter put three rounds in him before turning the gun on Edita Kravic.”
One of the crime scene guys was taking photos, a dull aluminum lamp throwing light on the victims. I’d looked at McGrath in death at least six times now. Every time it got a little easier. Every time we grew apart.
WORD GETS OUT fast when a cop is killed. Wisconsin Avenue was a media circus by the time Sampson and I slipped out through an alleyway behindWhole Foods.We didn’t want to talk to reporters until we had something to report.
The second we were back in the squad car and Sampson had us moving, I called Chief Michaels and filled him in.
“How many men do you need?” he asked when I’d finished.
I thought about that, said, “Four, sir, including Detective Stone. She and McGrath were friends. She’ll want in.”
“Done. I’ll have them assembled ASAP.”
“Give us an hour,” I said. “We’re swinging by McGrath’s before we head in to the office.”
“No stone unturned, Alex,” Michaels said.
“No, sir.”
“You’ll have to look at Terry Howard.”
“I heard Terry’s in rough shape.”
“Just the same. It will come up, and we have to say we’ve looked at him.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
Michaels hung up. I knew the pressure on him to find the killer was already building. When a fellow cop is murdered, you want swift justice. You want to show solidarity, solve the case quick, and put someone in cuffs and on trial.
Then again, you don’t want to leap to conclusions before you’ve collected all the evidence. With six detectives now assigned to the case, we’d be gathering facts fast and furious for the next few days.We’d be working around the clock.
I closed my eyes and took several deep, long breaths, preparing for the hard road that lay ahead and for the separation from my family.
The prospect of hard work didn’t bother me; being apart from my family did. I’m better when I have a home life. I’m a more grounded person. I’m also a saner cop.
The car slowed. Sampson said, “We’re here, Alex.”
McGrath’s place was a first-floor apartment in a converted row house near Dupont Circle. We got out the key our dead boss had been carrying and opened his front door.
It swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a sparsely furnished space with two recliners, a curved-screen TV on the wall, and a stack of cardboard packing boxes in the corner. It looked like McGrath had not yet fully moved in.
Before I could say that to Sampson, something crashed deep inside the apartment, and we heard someone running.
I drew my weapon, hissed, “Sampson, around the back.”
My partner pivoted and ran, looking for a way into the alley. I went through McGrath’s place, gun up, moving quickly, taking note of how few possessions the chief of detectives had had.
I cleared the floor fast, went to the kitchen, and found a window open. I stuck my head out. Sampson flashed by me. I twisted my head, saw he was chasing a male Caucasian in jeans, a black AC/DC T-shirt, and a black golf hat, brim pulled down over a wild shock of spiky blond hair.
He was a powerful runner; an athlete, certainly. He was carrying a black knapsack, but he still bounded more than ran, chewing up ground, putting a growing distance between himself and my partner. I spun around, raced back through McGrath’s house and out the front door, jumped into the car, threw on the bubble and siren, and pulled out, trying to cut the runner off.
I came flying around the corner of Twenty-Fifth and I Streets and caught a glimpse of his back as he dodged a pedestrian and vanished at the end of the block. It was astonishing how fast he’d covered that distance. Sampson was only just coming out of the alley, at least a hundred yards behind the guy.
I felt like flooring it and roaring after him, but I knew we were already beaten; I Street jogs at the end of the block, becomes Twenty-Sixth Street, and dead-ends at Rock Creek Park, which had enough vegetation and terrain changes to swallow up any man who had that kind of wheels. Oddly, we weren’t far as the crow flies from where the Maserati had crashed and exploded earlier in the day.
I turned off the siren, stopped next to Sampson, and got out.
“You okay, John?”
My partner was bent over, hands on his knees, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
“Did you see that guy go?” he croaked. “Like the Flash or something.”
“Impressive,” I said. “Question is, what was the Flash doing in Tommy McGrath’s place?”
Also by James Patterson
ALEX CROSS NOVELS
Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire • Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice • Cross the Line
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)
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) • Bullseye (with Michael Ledwidge)
NYPD RED SERIES
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp) •
NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp) •
NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp) •
NYPD Red 4 (with Marshall Karp)
STAND-ALONE THRILLERS
The Thomas Berryman Number • 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) • Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan) • Murder House (with David Ellis) • Never Never (with Candice Fox) • Woman of God (with Maxine Paetro)
ROMANCE
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) •
The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo) •
First Love (with Emily Raymond)
NON-FICTION
Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman) •
The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)
OTHER TITLES
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) • Dog’s Best Friend (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)
TREASURE HUNTERS SERIES
Treasure Hunters (with Chris Grabenstein) •
Danger Down the Nile (with Chris Grabenstein) •
Secret of the Forbidden City (with Chris Grabenstein) •
Peril at the Top of the World (with Chris Grabenstein)
HOUSE OF ROBOTS SERIES
House of Robots (with Chris Grabenstein) •
Robots Go Wild! (with Chris Grabenstein)
OTHER ILLUSTRATED NOVELS
Kenny Wright: Superhero (with Chris Tebbetts)
Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou)
Jacky Ha-Ha (with Chris Grabenstein)
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) •