“You can talk to me,” I said to the girl.
“Nonetheless, sir-”
“Or,” I interrupted, “we can do this later tonight and tomorrow. After I'm done here with all of the others.”
“It's all right, Freddy,” Karavi said, waving off the boy. “I want to help if I possibly can. Daniel is dead.”
We sat off to the side for a little privacy, and Karavi told me she was a grad student in cell biology at Georgetown. Both her parents were in the diplomatic corps, which was how she knew Daniel Njoku. They had been best friends but were never a couple. Daniel's girlfriend, Bari Nederman, had been shot tonight too, but she was alive.
Karavi described the gunman as a lone black man, maybe six six, at least that tall, wearing dark street clothes. “And he just looked… strong,” she said. “He had huge, muscular arms. Everything about him was powerful.”
“How about his voice? Did he speak to anyone? Before he started to shoot?”
Karavi nodded. “I heard him say something like 'I have an invitation' just before he…” She trailed off, not able to finish the thought.
“What kind of accent?” I asked. “American? Something else?” I was pushing because I knew I'd never get a better, truer account than right now.
“He wasn't from here,” she said. “Not American, I'm certain of that.”
“Nigerian? Did he sound like Daniel?”
“Maybe.” Her jaw clenched as she fought back the tears. “It's hard to think straight. I'm sorry.”
“Anyone else here Nigerian?” I turned back toward the others. “I need someone with a Nigerian accent.”
One of the boys spoke up. “I'm sorry, Officer, but there's no such thing,” He had a Jimi Hendrix 'fro and an open tuxedo shirt showing off his skinny chest and jewelry. “I speak Yoruban, for instance. There is also Igbo, and Hausa. And dozens of other languages. I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to suggest-”
“That's it!” Karavi put a shaking hand on my arm. I noticed a few of the others in the party were nodding too.
“That's how the killer sounded. Just like him.”
Cross Country
Chapter 23
I WAS STILL at the nightclub murder scene around two in the morning, conducting interviews that had begun to blend one into another, when the cell in my trousers pocket rang. I figured it might be the Nigerian embassy and answered it right away.
“Alex Cross, Metro,” I said.
“Dad?”
Damon's voice on my cell shocked me a little. At two in the morning, why wouldn't it? What was up now?
“Day, what's going on?” I asked my fourteen-year-old, who was away at school in Massachusetts.
“Uh… nothing really,” Damon said. I think my tone had taken him off guard. “I mean-I've been trying to call you all day. I've got some good news.”
I was relieved, but my pulse was still racing. “Okay, I need some good news. But what are you doing up so late?”
“I had to stay up. To catch you. I called home, talked to Nana. I didn't want to call you on your cell.”
I look in a slow breath and walked over to the hall by the bathrooms, away from the crime scene techs. No matter the time, it was always good to hear Damon's voice. I missed our talks, the boxing lessons I gave him, watching his basketball games. “What's your news? Let me hear it.”
“Nana already knows, but I wanted to tell you myself. I made the varsity. As a freshman. That's pretty good, right? Oh, and I got As on my midterms.”
“Listen to you-'Oh, and I got As.' Nice one-two, Damon. I guess you're doing pretty good up there,” I said, and suddenly I found myself smiling.
It was weird to be having this conversation under neon lights in a hallway that smelled of liquor and death, but it was still great news. Cushing Academy's sports and academic program had been a real draw for Damon. I knew how hard he'd been working to do well at both.
“Sir?” A uniform leaned her head into the hallway. “Nine-one-one dispatch for you?”
“Listen, Damon, can I call you later? Like in daylight, maybe?”
He laughed. “Sure, Dad. This is a big one, isn't it? Your case at that club. I saw you online.”
“It is a big one,” I admitted. “But it's still great to hear your voice. Any time. Get some sleep.”
“Yeah, I will. You get some sleep too.”
I hung up, feeling guilty. If this is what work meant-two a.m. conversations with my son-then I better make the work count. Dispatch relayed the call over to me, and I got the same woman from the Nigerian embassy as
