Jack & Jill

nice school, for just about any area of the city. Outside, near the street, a chain-link fence with razor wire ran the perimeter of the schoolyard, but the inside was festive, very bright, imaginatively decorated.
    I read several hand-lettered posters and banners as I walked.
    CHILDREN FIRST. GROW WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED. SUCCESS COMES EN CANS, NOT CANNOTS . Cornball, but nice. Inspiring for the children, and for me as well.
    That particular week the hallway display cases were filled with “animal shelters,” which were dioramas made by the kids, each one illustrating an animal and its habitat. It struck me that the Sojourner Truth School was a terrific habitat itself. Under normal circumstances, it was a sweet place for Damon to grow and learn.
    Unfortunately, two little babies from this school had been murdered in the last week.
    That made me furiously angry, and it also frightened me more than I wanted to admit. When I was growing up, tough as it was supposed to have been in D.C., kids seldom if ever died at our school. Now, for a lot of reasons, it happened all the time in schools. Not only in Washington but in L.A.’s schools. New York’s. Chicago’s. Maybe even Sioux City’s.
    What the hell was going on from sea to shining sea?
    The heavy wooden door to the inner administrative office was open, but the assistant appeared to have left. On her desk was a collection of Caucasian, African-American, and Asian play dolls. A sign read:
Barbara Breckenridge, I can really tap-dance.
    I felt like a housebreaker, a neighborhood break-and-enter artist, a bad character of some sort or other. Suddenly, I was concerned about the principal working late by herself in the school.
    Anyone could walk in here, just as I had done. The Sojourner Truth School killer could walk in here some night. It would be so easy.
This easy.
    I turned the corner into the main office and was about to announce my presence when I saw Mrs. Johnson. I thought of my made-up name for her—
Christine.
    She was busy at work at an old-fashioned rolltop desk that looked at least a hundred years old. She was
lost
in the work, actually.
    I watched her for a couple of seconds. She wore gold-wire glasses to do her paperwork. She was humming the “Shoop Shoop” song from
Waiting to Exhale.
Sounded nice.
    There was something enormously right, even touching, about the scene—the dedicated teacher, the educator, at work. A smile passed across my lips.
She’s even tougher than you are. Daddy.
    I still wondered about that. She didn’t look tough at the moment. She looked serene, happy in her work. She looked at peace, and I envied her that.
    I finally felt a little awkward standing in the doorway unannounced. “Hi there. It’s Detective Alex Cross,” I said. “Hello. Mrs. Johnson?”
    She stopped humming and looked up. There was the slightest glint of fear in her eyes. Then she smiled. Her smile was warm and welcoming. Very nice to be on the receiving end of one of her easy smiles.
    “Ahh, it
is
Detective Cross,” she said. “And what brings you to the principal’s office?” she said in a put-on voice of authority.
    “I guess I need some help from the principal. Extra help with my homework.” That was true enough, I suppose. “I need to talk with you a little about Vernon Wheatley, if that’s possible. I also wanted to get your okay to speak with some of the teachers again, to see if any of them heard anything from the kids after Vernon’s murder. Somebody might have seen
something
that would help us, even if they don’t think they did. Maybe something the kids heard their parents say.”
    “Yes, I figured the same thing,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Somebody here at the school could have a clue, something useful, and might not know it”
    I liked everything I saw about Mrs. Johnson, but as soon as I saw it, I pushed it out of my mind.
Wrong time, wrong place, and wrong woman.
I’d done some questionable things in my life, and I’m no angel, but trying to fool with a married woman wasn’t going to be one of them.
    “There’s not too much new to report, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve been working a little overtime on your account. I grilled the teachers at lunch today.
Interrogated
them, actually. I told them that they should tell me if they heard or saw anything suspicious. They talk to me about most things. We have a pretty close-knit group here.”
    “Are any of the teachers still here? I could talk to them now if they are. I don’t