Page 96 of The Family Cross

“Then it’s up to you,” Bobby said.

“I wouldn’t know how to even start to set something like that up,” I said.

Bree said, “I’ll look into it.”

“Fun,” my grandmother said and grinned. “Notre Dame.”

“I guess you’re going, then,” I said, marveling at her strength of will.

“Good,” she said, still smiling. She closed her eyes.

I went to her side, figuring she was done for the night but wanting to gaze at her, to study every line and plane of her face. Because, honestly, given her age and her condition, I did not know how many more times I’d have the chance.

Nana Mama came around again, saw me there. As if she knew what I was keeping from her, she said quietly, “Where Charlie?”

There it was. I glanced over at the hustle and bustle in the kitchen where Bree and the boys were helping the aunts clean up. Then I sighed. It was impossible for me to lie to my grandmother.

“I have some sad news about Charlie, Nana,” I said quietly. “He had drug and alcohol problems. He lost his job, and he and Ellen split up.”

Her brows knit and she sucked her cheeks in, the joy of anticipating a trip to the NCAA finals gone. “Where he?”

“I’ve been trying to find him so I could ask him to come see you.”

As I said, it was impossible for me to lie to her, but I could not bring myself to mention my fears that Charlie might’ve been the first victim of the Firebug. I just could not do it to her.

“Find him,” she said. “Lotto. Get Charlie help.”

I bobbed my head. “I can do that. We can do that for him, Nana. That’s a very good idea.”

“Like that,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Much.”

83

THE NEXT MORNING, FEELING not the slightest bit of guilt over withholding some information about Charlie from my grandmother, I studied the toxicology reports and phone records of the murdered Georgetown professor Drake Conway. John Sampson did the same with the records for the late Corey McGovern and Reverend Dylan Sentinel.

Though the fire had messed with the chemistry of all three bodies, it was clear Conway had been intoxicated when he died. He’d also had barbiturates in his system.

It turned out Sentinel had too. And McGovern was high on ecstasy when she was killed.

Most interesting to me was that, according to his cell phone records, the professor had called the same number multiple times in the twenty-four hours before his death; eight of those calls were made in the hour before he entered Rock Creek Park.

I called the number and got an out-of-service recording. Probably another burner.

“Corey made a bunch of calls the night she was murdered,” Sampson said from behind his desk opposite me. “But she called one number four times.”

“Burner?”

“Probably. Now out of service.”

“Are you in her phone?” I asked. He nodded. I gave him the number that Conway had been calling. “Do you see it in her contacts?”

He started typing and his head came up. “Bing Bang.”

“Really?”

“No doubt.”

“Well, that changes things,” I said. “Let’s start checking the homeless camps for O’Hare and the kids.”