Alex Cross's Trial

porch. She had put on another bonnet and seemed even more attractive than she’d been this morning.

    She reached out for my hand. “I came to apologize, Ben.”

    I took her hand. “What do you mean? Apologize for what?”

    I said this for the benefit of Maybelle, whom I could see lingering in the parlor, trying not to be observed.

    “Let’s go look at Miss Maybelle’s rose garden,” I proposed. “It’s in full bloom this time of year.”

    I made a motion with my eyes that disclosed my real meaning to Elizabeth. She nodded and followed me around the porch toward the backyard.

    Maybelle’s roses were actually in sad shape, a few blossoms drooping among a profusion of weeds.

    “I’m sorry for this morning,” Elizabeth said. “The way I ran off.”

    “You didn’t run, you walked. I watched your every step,” I said and smiled.

    “You can still be funny, Ben.”

    “Sit on the bench,” I said. “I won’t bite you.”

    Smoothing her dress, she sat on the stained marble bench amid the raggedy roses.

    Sitting close to her, I was fascinated by her every gesture, word, movement. I noticed the way Elizabeth touched her mouth with the knuckle of her second finger, giving herself a little kiss before coming out with an opinion. And the slow southern musical rhythm of her speech. Lord, what was getting into me? Probably just loneliness. Or was it being rejected by my wife?

    “You were surprised I came to see you again so soon?” she said.

    “I’m always glad to see you, Elizabeth,” I said. Then added, “Yes, I’m surprised you’re here.”

    “I do have an ulterior motive,” she said. “We’re having a luncheon after church on Sunday. Will you come?”

    “We?”

    “Richard and I.”

    “Sure, I’ll come,” I replied.

    I caught the faint scent of rose water, and I noted the curve of her nose, and remembered being very young and in love with that little nose.

    “Wonderful,” she was saying. “Come about one, Ben. We’ll have some nice people in. I’ll try not to have any of those you were subjected to at L.J.’s.”

    She stood. “I can’t be late picking up Emma from her lesson. She’s quite the little pianist, and I guess I’m quite the doting mother.”

    I stood, and we smiled. This time, there was no kiss on the cheek.

    But I watched Elizabeth walk away again, every step, until she finally disappeared behind the rooming house porch.

    Chapter 47

    WASHINGTON, D.C.

    That same afternoon, Senator John Tyler Morgan, Democrat of Alabama, stood in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, yelling at the general manager.

    “I have never been refused service in my life! That insufferable man in the elevator had the nerve to tell me he was holding the car for an important personage . He told me to get off that car and wait for another car!”

    Senator Morgan was so angry that specks of saliva were speckling the lapels of the general manager’s morning coat.

    “Senator, I am so sorry for the inconvenience—”

    “Not an inconvenience! It’s a goddamned insult! Who the hell was he holding the elevator for, the goddamned president of the United States?”

    As he roared this question, the great glass doors of the lobby flew open at the hands of two uniformed guards. In walked Theodore Roosevelt.

    He took one look at John Tyler Morgan in mid rampage and the poor little cowering manager. Then Roosevelt thundered, “Unless my eyes deceive me, the man at the center of that ruckus is none other than the senior senator from the great state of Alabama. Good morning, John!”

    The famous Civil War general and southern statesman was stunned into silence. No one had called him John in many years.

    “Morning, Mr. President,” he finally managed to say.

    “Come ride the elevator with me, John!”

    A few minutes later, having deposited the red-faced Morgan on his floor, Roosevelt had a good laugh at his expense. “And the newspapers call me a gasbag? Senator Morgan, my friends, is the royal and supreme emperor of gasbags! Did you see how quickly I deflated him simply by using his Christian name?”

    Appreciative laughter from his aides trailed the president to his suite. Roosevelt grew serious the moment he passed through the door.

    “Good morning, Mr. President. We’re all ready for your meeting,” said Jackson Hensen, his capable assistant.

    “Well, get them in here. No need to dawdle.”

    “Yes, sir. They’re on their way up in the service elevator.”

    Roosevelt chuckled. “How did they take to that?”

    “I understand the gentleman was…