Free Cross Fire by James Patterson Page B

ready to give this thing thirty minutes in prime time, if you’re ready to sit down.”
    “Joyce, I’m not doing any special coverage until we have something we want to get out there. I wish to hell that we did.”
    “No prob,” she said, “but don’t come crying to me when you
want
some coverage and they’ve moved on to something else.” Joyce was an old hand in the department and the unofficial mother hen of Investigative Services.
    “I never cry,” I said.
    “Except when I get you on the ropes,” Sampson said, and threw a punch my way.
    “That’s your breath — not your punches,” I told him.
    We’d reached the ground floor, and Joyce stopped with her hand on the door. “Excuse me, Beavis? Butt-Head? We ready to focus, here?” She was also excellent at her job and great to have as backup at these daily press briefings, which could get kind of hectic.
    Did I say “kind of”?
A buzzing swarm of reporters came at us the second we hit the front steps of the Daly Building.
    “Alex! What can you tell us about Woodley Park?”
    “Detective Cross, over here!”
    “Is there truth to the rumors —”
    “People!”
Joyce shouted over the group. Her volume was the stuff of legend around the office. “Let the man make his statement first!
Please.
”
    I quickly ran down the facts of the last twenty-four hours and said what I could about the Bureau’s ballistics report without going into too much detail. After that, it was back to the free-for-all.
    Channel 4 got in first. I recognized the microphone but not the reporter, who looked about twelve years old to me. “Alex, do you have any message for the sniper? Anything you want him to know?”
    For the first time, something like quiet broke out on the steps. Everybody wanted to hear my answer to that one.
    “We’d welcome contact of any kind from whoever is responsible for these shootings,” I said into the cameras. “You know where to find us.”
    It wasn’t a great sound bite, and it wasn’t badass or anything else that some people out there might have wanted me to say. But within the investigation, we were all in agreement: there would be no goading, no lines in the sand, and no public characterizing of the killer — or killers — until we knew more about who we were dealing with, here.
    “Next question. James!” Joyce called out, just to keep things focused and moving along.
    It was James Dowd, one of the national NBC correspondents. He had a thick pad of notes in his hand, which he worked off of as he spoke.
    “Detective Cross, is there any truth to the rumors about a blue Buick Skylark with New York plates — or a dark-colored, rusted-out Suburban — near the scene in Woodley Park? And can you tell us if either of those vehicles has been traced back to the killer?”
    I was pissed and taken off guard all at once. The problem was, Dowd was good.
    The truth was, I had an old friend — Jerome Thurman from First District — quietly following up on both of those leads from the night of the Dlouhy murder. So far, all we hadwas a mile-long list of matching vehicles from the DMV, and no proof that any of them were connected in any way to the shootings.
    But more than that, we had a strong desire to keep this information under wraps. Obviously someone had spoken to the press, which was ironic given my lecture about discretion on the FIG call just a few minutes ago.
    I gave the only answer I could. “I have no comment on that at this time.” It was like dangling a steak in front of a pack of wild dogs. The whole mass of them pressed in even closer.
    “People!” Joyce tried again. “One at a time. You know how this works!”
    It was a losing battle, though. I threw out at least four more “no comments” and stonewalled until someone finally changed the subject. But the damage was already done. If either of those vehicles did in fact belong to the snipers, they now had full warning, and we’d just lost an important advantage.
    It was our