Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(8)

“He angry about that?” Muller asked.

Vivian snorted. “Quite the opposite. Tommy was fine with the agreement—proud of it, in fact. He said it proved he’d married me for …”

Tears welled in her eyes again. She took a deep breath. “He liked the personal independence it represented, and the self-reliance.”

“How did your lives mix?” Bree asked. “I mean, you’re out here, leading a country-club life, while Tom was in the city doing a dangerous job.”

Vivian’s face went through a slow flurry of emotions—resistance, then consideration, and finally acceptance. Her shoulders slumped.

“The more I think about it, Detective Stone, the more I see that Tom and I did live in separate worlds, right from the beginning. Here we had a safe, fairy-tale life, but out there in DC, on the streets—well, Tom liked to fight dragons. Being a cop made him feel alive, and all I could feel when I went into the city with him was fear.”

Muller said, “He was killed with a younger woman.”

“I heard that,” she said. “Who was she?”

“Edita Kravic, early thirties, studying law at American University, damned attractive.”

Vivian took the news that the woman her estranged husband had died with was in her early thirties and damned attractive like a one-two punch.

“Was she his mistress?” she asked in a strained voice.

“We don’t know,” Bree said. “He ever mention that name to you?”

“Never.”

“Just for the record, Mrs. McGrath,” Bree said, “where were you at seven twenty this morning?”

Vivian looked at her incredulously. “You honestly think I could kill Tom?”

“We have to ask, Viv,” Muller said. “It’s part of the job. You know the drill.”

“I was probably taking a shower.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I should hope not. I’ve been living alone.”

“Who was the first person you saw this morning?”

“Catalina Monroe. My massage therapist. I had an eight o’clock.”

“You have a way we can contact her?”

McGrath’s widow rattled off a phone number, then said, “You know who you should be looking at?”

“Tell us,” Bree said.

“Terry Howard,” Vivian said with spite in her voice. “He threatened Tom on multiple occasions.”

“Cross is working that angle,” Muller said.

“Good. Good. I was afraid it might be … well, you know.”

“Are you planning a memorial?” Bree asked.

Vivian seemed more confused than ever; she looked down and whispered, “Is that something I’m supposed to do? I don’t know if Tommy would even want me to be involved.”

Muller said, “I suppose you make that decision by first taking a moment to honor the good times you had with Tommy, figure out what they meant to you. If Tommy’s love during those years was enough, you do it, you see him buried. And if those years of love weren’t enough, you don’t.”

“If you decide not to do anything, I’ll take care of the arrangements,” Bree said.

McGrath’s widow looked around as if in a daze, her chin trembling, and then said, “No, Kurt’s right. Honoring our love and burying the husband Tommy was is the least I can do.”

The dam burst, and she wept. “It’s the only thing I can do for him now.”





CHAPTER


8


EDITA KRAVIC’S APARTMENT in Columbia Heights looked like it had been decorated right out of the Sundance Catalog—high-end furniture, nicely framed prints on the wall—and given the place’s location, the rent had to be two, maybe three thousand a month.

That was strange, I thought, because law students were usually starving. Edita evidently did quite well with the whole Level 2 Certified Coach thing.

The kitchen was stocked with culinary gadgetry, and there were fine wines chilling in the fridge along with gourmet cheeses and spreads. Nice crystal in the cabinets, but no photographs anywhere in the living area, nothing that suggested Edita Kravic’s private life, nothing that could tell us more about her.

The apartment had three bedrooms. The smallest one had been turned into an office. There was a business phone with several lines and an open laptop on the desk.

“I’ll look here,” I said.

“I’ll take the bedrooms,” Sampson said.

Just as in the living area, there was nothing personal on the shelves or the walls. Just a basic desk, a backless chair, and two wooden filing cabinets. I tugged on the drawers of one and found them locked. The top drawer of the other slid open, revealing standard office supplies.

The next drawer down was full of files. I looked through them, found out that she owned a late-model Audi A5 and that she vacationed in the Caymans—a lot, as in three times in the prior year. But there was nothing that gave me a clear idea of how she’d paid for it all.

I was thinking she’d have to have an income of over a hundred grand to live like this. Did Level 2 Certified Coaches make that kind of money? If so, maybe I was in the wrong business.

I thought about breaking the lock on the first cabinet but decided to take a look at the computer first. To my surprise, when I ran my finger across the touchpad, the screen lit right up and showed me the desktop. Several different applications were running.