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Caller ID was on as well, slowly streaming across the screen:
Paladin … Paladin … Paladin …
CHAPTER 67
Washington, DC
“PALADIN,” A WOMAN ANSWEREDbefore the phone could ring a second time. “How may I direct your call?”
“Ryan Malcomb, please,” I said. “Tell him Dr. Alex Cross needs a favor.”
“I will, Dr. Cross. How are you?”
I flashed on the woman who worked at the company’s front desk. “Riggs?”
“In the flesh,” Riggs said, sounding pleased. “Hold on, Doc.”
The line fell into a soft buzz. Several moments later, Riggs came back. “Dr. Cross, I’m afraid Mr. Malcomb’s in the middle of a call he can’t break. Can Steve Vance help you?”
“That works,” I said.
There was a click and Vance came on. “Dr. Cross? How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “How was the Italy trip?”
“Too short. And I’m still a bit jet-lagged.”
“I’m calling about something Ryan found in that first big data dump we gave him.”
“Okay.”
I described how Malcomb and his analysts had determined that cellular and data service had stopped for a brief period in the areas around each of the Family Man’s crime scenes.
“We’ve had another incident and I’d like to see if there was a similar blackout around the Potomac address, which I can e-mail or text you.”
“Text works. And since we’ve already received authorization for the Family Man case from the FBI director’s office, I’m sure we can get right on it. Anything else?”
“Same thing around a Georgetown address. Seems like cell and data services were shut down in that area around the same time as the Potomac address.” I also asked Paladin to see if there were similar black holes around Tull’s rental home at the times of the other Family Man killings.
“Since we’ve already got the data loaded for those cases, this should go quickly,” Vance said. “We’ll get back to you ASAP.”
“I appreciate it, Steve.”
“Anything for law enforcement. And again, sorry I missed you last week.”
“Next time.”
“I look forward to it, sir,” Vance said, and the line went dead.
I pocketed the phone and donned latex gloves, blue booties, and a hairnet before returning to the Kane crime scene. Bodies were being removed in black bags. Dozens of cameras wererecording it. Reporters were yelling questions at me, all of which I ignored.
The fact of the matter was that we had no real suspect other than Tull. And I certainly was not going to mention his name to the media. Not without serious corroborating evidence, which, at the moment, we did not have.
Inside the house, the black bags containing the children were brought down the stairs amid a hushed silence. Anger appeared in the faces of every agent, detective, and forensics expert on hand, including me.
Who shoots children like that? Executes them? With no emotion? And why? Goddamn it, why?
I couldn’t answer any of those questions and that made me even more frustrated.
