James Patterson raises the stakes to their highest level, ever-when Alex Cross becomes the obsession of a genius of menace set on proving that he is the greatest mind in the history of crime.
Detective Alex Cross is a family man at heart—nothing matters more to him than his children, his grandmother, and his wife Bree. His love of his family is his anchor, and gives him the strength to confront evil in his work. One man knows this deeply, and uses Alex's strength as a weapon against him in the most unsettling and unexpected novel of James Patterson's career.
When the ones Cross loves are in danger, he will do anything to protect them. If he does anything to protect them, they will die.
CROSS MY HEART is the most powerful Alex Cross novel ever, propelled by the ever-ingenious mind of James Patterson, the world's #1 bestselling writer.
Part One | SIXTEEN DAYS EARLIER...
MUCH LATER THAT SAME day, Kevin Olmstead, a soft-featured man in his late twenties, spotted the neon sign of the Superior Spa, a massage parlor on Connecticut Avenue reputed to offer “happy endings.”
Happy endings, Olmstead thought, running his fingers delicately over his smooth skin. Despite all the craziness in his head, he still knew the enduring value of a happy ending. He had enough money in his pocket, didn’t he? He seemed to remember withdrawing cash from an ATM sometime that day.
Was that real? Do I still have the money?
Olmstead stopped, blinking, trying to get his thoughts on track again, a common problem recently. Then he dug in the right front pocket of his jeans, pulled out a wad of cash. He smiled again. He wasn’t losing the old noodle when it came to sex or money.
Excited now, he hurried toward the massage parlor.
A man in a business suit, no tie, darted out the front door, looked furtively at Olmstead, and then scurried past him. Something about the man’s demeanor activated searing memories of another massage parlor and another night.
Olmstead remembered most vividly the smell of citrus cleaner. And he vaguely recalled five bodies: three women in bathrobes, a Cuban in a striped bowling shirt and porkpie hat, and a white guy in a cheap business suit, no tie, all shot at close range, all bleeding from head wounds.
Pain ripped through Olmstead’s own skull, almost buckling him on the sidewalk. Was that real? Had that happened? Were there five people dead in a massage parlor in . . . where? Florida?
Or was that all a hallucination? Some blip in his meds?
Olmstead’s mind surfed to another memory: a hand putting a Glock 21 pistol into a backpack. Was it the backpack on his shoulder? Was that his hand?
He looked at his hands and was surprised to see that he wore flesh-colored latex gloves. He was about to check the backpack when the front door of the Superior Spa opened.
A young Asian woman looked out at him, smiled luridly in red hot pants, stiletto heels, and a T-shirt that said goddess spelled out in glitter.
“It okay,” she said in halting English. “We no bite. You want come inside?”
Happy endings, Olmstead thought, and went toward her feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the invitation.
Everything about the Superior Spa was a marvel to Olmstead, even the thumping rap music. But what entranced him most was the smell of citrus disinfectant. As one might with a freshly baked pie, he sniffed long and deep, flashing on the image of those corpses in Florida. Were they real? Was this?
He looked at the little thing in the red hot pants, said, “Any other girls working tonight?”
She pouted, poked him in the ribs. “What, you no like for me?”
“Oh, I like you fine, Little Thing. Just looking at options.”
A big, hard-looking man in a black T-shirt came out from behind the maroon curtain. A second Asian woman followed him. Scrawnier than Little Thing, she gazed at Olmstead with pink, watery, vacant eyes.
“See anything you like, bro?” the big guy asked.
“I like them both,” Olmstead said.
“You think this is Bangkok or something? Make a choice.”
“Shower, soapy table, massage, seventy-five to me,” the bouncer replied. “Anything extra, you talk to the girl. Anything extra, you pay the girl.”
Olmstead nodded, pointed at Little Thing, who looked overjoyed.
The bouncer said, “Seventy-five and you gotta check your pack, bro.”
Olmstead went soft-lidded, nodded. “Lemme get my wallet.”
He swung the pack off his shoulder, set it on one of the plastic chairs, and unstrapped the top flap. He drew back the toggle that held shut the main compartment and tugged the pouch open. There was his wallet deep inside. And a beautiful Glock 21.
Was that a suppressor on the barrel? Was the weapon real? Was any of this?
Olmstead sure hoped so as he drew out the pistol. When it came to happy endings, a wet dream was rarely as satisfying as the real thing.
Copyright © 2013 by James Patterson