Along Came a Spider

a lot tougher to take in stride. Soneji had beaten us down South, in Florida and Carolina. We hadn’t gotten Maggie Rose back. We didn’t know if she was alive or dead.
    After I was debriefed for five hours by the Federal Bureau, I was flown up to Washington where I got to answer all the same questions from my own department. One of the last inquisitors was Chief of Detectives Pittman. The Jefe appeared at midnight. He was all showered and shaved for the occasion of our special meeting.
    “You look like absolute hell,” he said to me. Those were the first words out of his mouth.
    “I’ve been up since yesterday morning,” I explained. “I know how I look. Tell me something I don’t already know.”
    I knew that was a mistake before the words got out. I don’t usually lead with my chin, but I was groggy and tired and generally fucked up by that time.
    The Jefe leaned forward on one of the little metal chairs in his conference room. I could see his gold fillings as he spoke to me. “Sure thing, Cross. I have to blow you off the kidnapping case. Right or wrong, the press is pinning a lot of what went haywire on you,
and us
. The FBI isn’t taking any of the heat. Thomas Dunne’s making a lot of noise, too. Seems fair to me. The ransom’s gone; we don’t have his daughter.”
    “Most of that is pure bullshit,” I told Chief Pittman. “Soneji asked for me to be the contact. Nobody knows why yet. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone, but I did. The FBI blew the surveillance, not me.”
    “Now tell me something I don’t already know,” Pittman came back. “Anyway, you and Sampson can go back on the Sanders and Turner murders. Just the way you wanted it in the first place. I don’t mind if you stay in the background on the kidnapping. That’s all there is to talk about.” The Jefe said his piece, and then he left. Over and out. No discussion of the matter.
    Sampson and I had been put back in our place: Washington Southeast. Everybody had their priorities straight now. The murders of six black people mattered again.

CHAPTER 28

    TWO DAYS after I returned from South Carolina, I woke to the noise of a crowd gathered outside our house in Southeast.
    From a seemingly safe place, the hollow of my pillow, I heard a buzz of voices. A line was sounding in my head: “Oh no, it’s tomorrow again.”
    I finally opened my eyes. I saw other eyes. Damon and Janelle were staring down at me. They seemed amused that I could be sleeping at a time like this.
    “Is that the TV, kids? All that awful racket I hear?”
    “No, Daddy,” said Damon. “TV’s not on.”
    “No, Daddy,” repeated Janelle. “It’s better than TV.”
    I propped my head up on an elbow. “Well, are you two having a loud
party
with your friends outside? That it? Is that what I hear out my bedroom window?”
    Serious headshaking came from the two of them. Damon finally smiled, but my little girl remained serious and a little afraid.
    “No, Daddy. We aren’t havin’ a party,” Damon said.
    “Hmmm. Don’t tell me the newspeople and the TV reporters are here again. They were here just a few hours ago. Just last night.”
    Damon stood there with his hands on top of his head. He does that when he’s excited or nervous.
    “Yes, Daddy, it’s the ’porters again.”
    “Piss me off,” I muttered to myself.
    “Piss me off, too,” Damon said with a scowl. He partially understood what was going on.
    A very public lynching! Mine.
    The damn reporters again, the newsies. I rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. I needed to paint again, I saw. It never stops when you own.
    It was now a media “fact” that I had blown the exchange for Maggie Rose Dunne. Someone, maybe the Federal Bureau, maybe George Pittman, had hung me out to dry. Somebody had also leaked the false insider information that my psychological evaluations of Soneji had dictated actions in Miami.
    A national magazine ran the headline
D.C. Cop Lost Maggie Rose
! Thomas Dunne had said in a TV interview that he held me personally responsible for failing to carry out the release of his daughter in Florida.
    Since then, I’d been the subject of several stories and editorials. Not one of them was particularly positive — or close to being factual.
    If I had screwed up the ransom exchange in any way, I would have taken the criticism. I can take heat okay. But I hadn’t screwed up. I’d put my life on the line in Florida.
    More than ever, I needed to know why Gary Soneji had picked me