Alex Cross 16 (8 page)

The host — and best man — was well known to Nicholson: he was Temple Suiter, a partner with one of DC's most prestigious and well-connected law firms, with clients including the Family Research Council and the royal family of Saudi Arabia, as well as members of the former White House administration. Nicholson had done his homework, as always.

Benjamin Painter, the bachelor of honor, was about to marry into one of Washington's dynasty families. Next week, he'd be calling the senior senator from Virginia Dad, and one of DC's most beloved plastic-surgery victims Mom. He was also widely believed to be gearing up for a Senate run of his own, all of which made Mr. Painter quite valuable — in Nicholson's way of viewing the world, anyway. Right now, the future groom and senator was sprawled on a club chair in suite A. Two of the youngest, page 32

prettiest, and least threatening girls, Sasha and Liz, were slowly undressing each other on the bed while a new one, Ana, worked him over through the cotton of his yuppie boxers. The threesome looked to be in their midteens, but all were of legal age. Nineteen, to be exact. Barely legal. Nicholson ran a finger across his touchpad to adjust the image. The cameras were wireless, pan-tilt-zoom units the size of pencil erasers. This particular one was embedded in the room's smoke detector. A microphone, no bigger than a match head, was hardwired through the ceiling and into the chandelier directly over the king-size bed, where Sasha was just sitting up, smiling blithely,
cooing
. She straddled Liz, both of them naked now except for expensive-looking costume jewelry, their slinky black cocktail dresses in tiny heaps on the floor.

Sasha reached across to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a thick flesh-colored phallus. She held it up and waggled it for Benjamin Painter to see. His eyes widened appropriately.

"Would you like me to do Liz?" she asked, smiling demurely. "I'd
like
to do Liz. I'd really like to do Liz."

"That's great," Ben said, as if praising a useful underling at his father's firm. "Get her ready for me, Sasha. And you —" He put his hand on the top of Ana's head as she knelt in front of him. "You just take your time, Ana. Slow and steady wins the race, am I right?"

"Oh, I wouldn't have it any other way, Benjamin. I'm enjoying this too." If Mr. Painter was busy giving Nicholson excellent video material to work with, his good friend from their days together at NYU Law, Mr. Suiter, was all but writing a blank check. Suiter had two of the prettiest Asian girls, Maya and Justine, in the spa. Maya was lying across the tiled soaking-tub platform, on her back, with her small, shapely legs wiggling in the air — while Suiter drilled her furiously. She seemed to be enjoying it, which was doubtful, since Maya and Justine lived together and were a couple — recently married in their home state of Massachusetts.

Justine, in fact, was just now providing "the money shot." She stood over Suiter, knees slightly bent, gripping a hold bar on the ceiling and letting nature take its course down the client's shoulders and back. Suiter panted out in time with his own thrusts, his voice rising toward climax. "That's right . . . That's right . . . That'sa girl, that'sa fucking girl."

Nicholson rolled his eyes in disgust and muted the mating sounds. He didn't need to hear this idiot's twaddle right now. Later in the week, he'd pick out a nice thirty-second clip to send to Mr. Suiter at his home office. Something with full frontal and choice words always seemed to do the job best. Because as much as these men were willing to pay for getting spanked on a Saturday night, or even just to fuck a woman who wouldn't ask what they were thinking about afterward, Tony Nicholson knew that they were always —
always
— willing to pay even more for the privilege of keeping those dirty little secrets to themselves. All of them — except Zeus.

"License DLY 224, a dark blue Mercedes McLaren. Leased to a Temple Suiter."

"The lawyer?"

"Presumably. Who else would it be? Guy's got more money than God." Carl Villanovich put the camera down and rubbed his eyes vigorously. It had been three straight nights of surveillance in the woods of Blacksmith Farms, and he was stone-cold sick of the duty. He unfolded a tripod from his pack and mounted the camera to give himself a break. The image played on a laptop next to him as he zoomed out for a long shot of the house exterior. The place was huge, limestone from the look of it, with three-story columns in front. It had probably been a plantation house at one point. There was a converted barn in the back and several other outbuildings, all of them dark tonight.

"Here comes another one."

His partner, Tommy Skuba, fired off several shots with a high-speed digital SLR as a wine red Jaguar coupe came rushing out of the woods. Villanovich went in tight on the Jag's license number when it swung around the oval loop in front of the house.

"Got that?" he asked.

"Got it," came the voice on his headset. Command center was seventy-five miles away in Washington, page 33

watching everything in real time.

There was no valet out front. The new arrival parked himself and rang the bell. Almost instantly, a tall, gorgeous black woman in a shimmery dress answered the door, smiling, and let him right in.

"Skuba, stay on the windows."

"I know, I know. Doin' my best to make Steven Spielberg proud. Jaguar must be a regular." Villanovich rubbed both hands up and down his face, trying to stay sharp. "Any chance of calling this early tonight? We've already got more than we need here, don't we?"

"Negative," command came back right away. "We want you there for departures." Another round of shots from Skuba's camera pulled Villanovich's attention back to the house. The Jag's driver had just passed a window on the stairs, walking with a girl on his arm. Tall and black, but not the woman from the front door.

"Jesus Christ." Skuba lowered the camera and muted his headset. "Did you see the rack on her? I don't mind saying, I'm a little jealous out here. And, uh, horny."

"Don't be. Quantico's on the case now," Villanovich told him, still watching the empty window. "When this place goes down, they're all going down with it."

"We've unloaded the fluid in your grandmother's chest and gotten her blood pressure back to a baseline level, but that's only a start. She, and you, are going to have to be vigilant. Regina won't admit it, but she's over ninety years old. This is a serious problem."

"I understand," I said. "And so does my grandmother — believe it or not." Nana was already on a whole new regimen of medications — ACE inhibitors, diuretics, and a hydralazinenitrate combination that had been shown especially effective with African American patients for some reason. There was also a new no-salt diet to think about, and daily weight monitoring to make sure she wasn't retaining excess fluid.

"It's a lot to get used to all at once," Dr. Englefield said, offering a rare half smile. "Lack of compliance is a major contributor to cardiac arrest for someone in her position, and family support is crucial. It's critical."

"Believe me, we'll do whatever it takes," I told her. Even Jannie had been researching congestive heart failure online.

"I'd also recommend bringing in a home care provider any time you and your wife are out of the house." Englefield had met Bree only once in passing; I didn't bother to correct her. "Of course, that might be a tough sell with your grandmother. I suspect it will be."

I grinned for the first time. "I see you've been getting to know each other. And yes, we've already started looking into it."

The doctor smiled too — for about a tenth of a second. "Regina was lucky to have someone on hand when she collapsed the other day. You'd be wise to make sure she's just as lucky if — or when — it happens again." It wasn't hard to see why Nana had dubbed this one "Dr. Sunshine." But if she was trying to scare me, it was definitely working.

"Mrs. Cross," Dr. Englefield said, "you're doing quite well, all things considered. I'd recommend one more night's stay and then we can send you off."

"I like that word,
recommend,
" Nana said. "Thank you for your recommendation, Doctor. I appreciate it. Now, if you'll excuse us, my grandson is going to take me home. I have things to do today, cakes to bake, thank-you page 34

notes to write, and so on and so forth."

With a quick shrug from Englefield, I let it go. So did she. Forty-five minutes later, Nana and I were on our way home.

In the car, Nana reminded me of an old chocolate Lab we'd had when I was a kid in North Carolina, just before my parents died. The window was down and she was letting the air blow over her while the world flew by outside. I half expected her to start quoting Dr. King.
Free at last, free at
last . . .
Or maybe some choice line of Morgan Freeman's from
The Bucket List.
She turned to me and patted the upholstery with both hands. "How do they get these seats so comfortable? I could sleep much better here than in that hospital bed, I'll tell you that."

"So you won't mind that we turned your room into a den," I deadpanned. She cackled and started to recline the seat. "Just watch me." But when she got too low, her laugh turned into a coughing jag. Her lungs were still tentative; it doubled her over with a hacking sound that went right to my gut. I pulled over and got a hand behind her until I could raise the seat again. She waved me off, still coughing but better. My own heart was working overtime. This recovery was going to be an interesting dance, I could tell.

The coughing episode seemed like a good segue, so once we were moving again, I said, "Listen. Bree and I have been thinking about getting someone at the house —"

Nana gave a wordless grunt.

"Just for when we're at work. Maybe half a day."

"I don't need some oversolicitous stranger hovering over me and fluffing my pillows. It's embarrassing. And costly. We need a new roof, Alex, not nursemaids."

"I hear you," I said. I'd been expecting that answer. "But I'm not going to feel comfortable leaving the house otherwise. We have enough money."

"Oh, I see." She folded her hands in her lap. "This is all about what
you
want. I understand perfectly now."

"Come on, let's not argue. You're going home," I said, but then I caught a little eye roll from her. She was just busting my chops because she could — for the sheer fun of it.

Which was
not
to say she'd agreed to anything about any "nursemaid."

"Well, at least the patient's in a good mood," I said.

"Yes, she is," Nana answered. We were coming onto Fifth Street, and she sat up a little higher in her seat.

"And no one, not even the great Alex Cross, is going to get under her skin on a day as nice as this one."

"A few seconds later, she added,
"No nursemaids!"

"Gently!" I called to Jannie, who had already put the brakes on some.

"We missed you so much!" she shrieked. "Oh, Nana, welcome home! Welcome, welcome!"

"Give me a real hug, Janelle. I'm not going to break." Nana turned on like a lightbulb and grinned. Ali insisted on carrying Nana's suitcase, which he thunk-thunk-thunked up the steps behind us, while Nana took my arm on one side, Jannie's on the other.

When we came into the kitchen, Bree was on the phone. She flashed a big smile Nana's way and held up a just-one-second finger.

"Yes, sir. Yes. I will. Thank you so much!" said Bree into the receiver.

"Who was that?" I asked, but Bree was already rushing over to give Nana a hug of her own.

"Gently!" Ali said, which cracked Nana up.

"I'm not a basket of eggs," she said. "I'm a tough old bird." We settled in at the kitchen table after Nana made it clear she'd go to bed when "real people" did, thank you very much.

Once we were sitting, Bree cleared her throat like she had an announcement to make. She looked at each of us, then started in. "I've been thinking that maybe this whole idea of hiring someone to be here with Nana might not go over so well. Is that correct?"

page 35

"Mm-hm." Nana gave me a look that said,
See? I'm not so
hard to figure out.

"So . . . I'm going to cut back at work and stay home with you for a while, Nana. That is, if you'll have me." Nana beamed. "That's so thoughtful, Bree. And you put it so well. Now
that
is a health care plan I can live with."

I was a little stunned. "Cut back?" I asked.

"That's right. I'll stay available for whatever you need on Caroline's case, but everything else, I'm farming out. Oh — and Nana,
here
." She got up and took a sheaf of papers off the counter. "I printed these recipes out from the net. See if any of them look good to you. Or not. Whatever. You want some tea?" While Nana was reading, I followed Bree over to the stove. One look in her eyes and I realized that it would be wrong for me to ask if this was what she really wanted. Bree had always done what she wanted, and I mean that in a good way.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "You are the best." She smiled to let me know that thanks weren't necessary here, and also that she definitely was the best. "I love her too," she whispered.

"Eggplant?"
Nana held up one of the pages she'd been reading. "You can't make decent eggplant without salt. It's just not possible."

"Well, keep looking," Bree said, going over to sit down next to Nana. "There's a ton more recipes. What about the crab cakes?"

"Crab cakes could work," Nana said.

I just hung back and watched the two of them for a while. It felt like a real circle-of-life moment. I noticed the way Bree leaned into Nana when they laughed, and the way Nana always seemed to keep a hand on Bree, as if they'd been buddies forever. God willing, I thought, they would be for a long time to come.

"Angel's food cake with chocolate icing?" Nana said, and beamed mischief. "Is that on your good-to-eat list, Bree? Should be."