Page 4 of The House of Cross

In the headlights’ glare, through the snowflakes, she saw a powerfully built, short-haired blond woman running down the sidewalk in a warm-up suit with a reflective vest, a neck gaiter, a fleece headband low over orange-lens safety glasses to block the snow, and one of those hydration backpacks. As they passed her, Franklin saw she wore a headlamp as well.

Agnes pulled into the drive of Franklin’s bungalow. “Home again, home again.”

Franklin looked at her dark house, said, “Jiggety-jig.”

Agnes left the headlights on, came around the back of the car, and opened the door. “Same time in the morning, Judge?”

“Fifteen minutes earlier, please,” Franklin said, climbing out with her briefcase and purse.

“Judge Franklin!”

Both the judge and the driver turned to see the blond runner on the sidewalk just a few yards away, her headlamp aimed down and between them. She was squared off in a horse stance, gripping a pistol with a suppressor with both hands. She said something, though Franklin did not catch the words.

“Why are—” Franklin managed before the woman shot her twice, once between the eyes, once over her right eyebrow.

Agnes spun, tried to run. The woman shot her twice between the shoulder blades, then bent over and retrieved the knapsack and the four shell casings from the sidewalk. She stuffed the casings and the gun in the little pack, zipped it up, put it on. She pushed hard against the left side of her neck, felt it crack, and jogged away.

CHAPTER 3

I WAS HOME, FINISHINGthe dishes, when Ned Mahoney called.

Mahoney was the supervising special agent in charge of an elite FBI unit that worked high-profile investigations. I was a consultant to that unit, focusing on criminal psychology.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’re not going to Boston in the morning, Alex.”

“C’mon.” I groaned. “This is the third time we’ve postponed going up there.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve caught a major one. Judge Emma Franklin, only Black woman on the DC Court of Appeals, and her driver were gunned down in Franklin’s driveway in Alexandria about an hour ago. The acting director wants us on it pronto.”

Aaron Gleason, the prior FBI director, had died of a massivestroke two days after the election. The lame-duck president had named Marcia Hamilton, a former U.S. attorney for Chicago, as acting director until the incoming president took office.

“Jesus. Text me the address. I’m on my way.”

I hung up and turned around to see my wife, Bree, standing there with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. “On your way where? And you’d better say Boston.”

I held up both palms. “This is out of my control.”

“This is the third time we’ve put it off!”

“A District Court of Appeals judge, Emma Franklin, was just gunned down in her driveway and the FBI director wants us there,” I said.

Bree softened. “Franklin? Didn’t her husband die recently in a plane he was piloting?”

I nodded. “Got into wind shear and went down in the Chesapeake last spring.”

“This is going to set the city even more on edge than it already is with the inauguration coming up.”

Before I could reply, my phone buzzed, alerting me to the text.

“Go,” Bree said. “Maybe we’ll get to Boston before the inauguration.”

“We can only hope,” I said, giving her a kiss. “Don’t wait up.”

“Maybe,” she said, and kissed me back.

I left the kitchen and went through the dining room and down the hall, past the front room where Nana Mama, my ninety-something grandmother, was on the couch watching a documentary on rock and roll drummers. My daughter, Jannie, eighteen, a freshman at Howard University, was home after finals and sitting on the couch with her laptop. Ali, my youngest, was on the floor studying a math textbook.