Cross

the interrogation room. He made a lot of noise on the way out, like a petulant high school kid who’d just been given detention.
    Sampson didn’t say anything once he and Giametti were alone. He was still observing the mobster, trying to get under the punk’s skin. The guy was a murderer—that much he knew. And Giametti also had to know that he was up shit creek right now.
Paulina Sroka was fourteen years old.
    “The strong, silent type?” Giametti smirked again. “That your act, big boy?”
    Still not a word from Sampson. It went on that way for several minutes.
    Giametti finally leaned forward, and he spoke in a quiet, serious voice. “Look, you know this is bullshit, right? No murder weapon. No body. I didn’t clip any little Polack girl named Alexa. And Paulie
is
crazy. Trust me on that one. She’s young in years, but she’s no little girl. She was hooking in the old country. You know about that?”
    Sampson finally spoke. “Here’s what I know, and what I can prove. You were having sex with a fourteen-year-old in your own house.”
    Giametti shook his head. “She’s not fourteen. She’s a little
whore.
Anyway, I have something for you, something to trade. It’s about a friend of yours—
Alex Cross.
You listening, Detective? Hear this. I know who killed his wife. I know where he is now too.”

Chapter 39
    JOHN SAMPSON GOT OUT of his car slowly, and he trudged along the familiar stone walkway, then up the front stairs of the Cross family house on Fifth Street.
    He hesitated at the door, trying to collect his thoughts, to calm himself down if he could. This wasn’t going to be easy, and no one would know this more than he did. He knew things about Maria Cross’s murder that even Alex didn’t.
    Finally, he reached forward and rang the bell. He must have done this a thousand times in his life, but it never felt like it did now.
    No good would come of this visit. Nothing good whatsoever. It might even end a long friendship.
    A moment later, Sampson was surprised that it was Nana Mama who came to the door. The old girl was dressed in a flowery blue robe and looked even tinier than usual, like an ancient bird that ought to be worshipped. And in this house, she surely was, even by him.
    “John, what’s the matter now? What is it? I’m almost afraid to ask. Well, come inside, come inside. You’ll scare all the neighbors.”
    “They’re already scared, Nana,” Sampson drawled, and attempted a smile. “This is Southeast, remember?”
    “Don’t try to make a joke out of this, John. Don’t you dare. What are you here for?”
    Sampson suddenly felt like he was a teenager again, caught in one of Nana’s infamous stern glares. There was something so damn familiar about this scene. It reminded him of the time he and Alex got caught stealing records at Grady’s while they were in middle school. Or the time they were smoking weed behind John Carroll High School and got busted by an assistant principal, and Nana had to come to get them released.
    “I have to talk to Alex,” Sampson said. “It’s important, Nana. We need to wake him up.”
    “And why is that?” she tapped one extended foot and asked. “Quarter past three in the morning. Alex doesn’t work for the city of Washington anymore. Why can’t everybody just leave him be? You of all people, John Sampson. You know better than to come around here now, middle of the night, looking for his help again.”
    Sampson didn’t usually argue with Nana Mama, but this time he did. “I’m afraid it can’t wait, Nana. And I don’t need Alex’s help this time. He needs mine.”
    Then Sampson walked right past Nana and into the Cross house—uninvited.

Chapter 40
    IT WAS ALMOST 4:00 A.M., and Sampson and I were riding back to the First District station house in his car. I was wide awake now, and wired. My nervous system felt like it was vibrating.
    Maria’s murderer? After all these years?
Was it even a faint possibility that the killer could be caught more than ten years after my wife was shot down? The whole thing felt unreal to me. Back then, I’d been all over the case for a year, and I’d never completely given up the chase. And now we might suddenly find the killer? Was it possible?
    We arrived at the station house on Fourth Street and hurried inside, neither of us talking. A precinct house during the night shift can be a lot like an emergency room: You never know what to expect when you step inside. This time, I didn’t have a