Somehow, some way, Truscott had gotten his editors in New York to agree to do a continuing series on me, based on my track record for getting involved with high-profile murder cases on a fairly regular basis. Maybe it was because the last one, involving the Russian Mafiya, had been the worst case of my career and also very high-profile. I had taken the liberty of doing some research on Truscott. He was only thirty, educated at Boston University. His specialty was true crime, and he’d published two nonfiction books on the mafia. A phrase I’d heard about him stuck in my head: He plays dirty.

“Alex,” he said, smiling and extending his hand as if we were old friends meeting by chance. Reluctantly, I shook hands with Truscott. It wasn’t that I disliked him, or objected to his right to write whatever stories he wanted to, but he had already intruded into my life in ways that I felt were inappropriate—like writing daily e-mails and arriving at crime scenes, and even at our house in D.C. Now, here he was, showing up on our family vacation.

“Mr. Truscott,” I said in a quiet voice, “you know I’ve declined to cooperate with these articles.”

“No problem.” He grinned. “I’m cool with that.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m officially off the clock. This is family time. Can you give us some space? We’re at Disneyland.”

Truscott nodded as though he understood completely, but then he said, “Your vacation will be interesting to our readers. The calm-before-the-storm kind of thing. This is great! Disneyland is perfect. You have to understand that, right?”

“I don’t!” Nana said, and stepped toward Truscott. “Your right to stick out your arm ends at the other person’s nose. You ever hear that wise bit of advice, young man? Well, you should have. You know, you have some kind of nerve being here.”

Just then, though, I caught something even more disturbing out of the corner of my eye—a movement that didn’t fit the circumstances: a woman in black, slowly circling to our left.

She had a digital camera and was already taking pictures of us—of my family. Of Nana confronting Truscott.

I shielded the kids as best I could, and then I really lit into James Truscott. “Don’t you dare photograph my kids!” I said. “Now you and your girlfriend get out of here. Please, go.”

Truscott raised his hands over his head, smiled cockily, and then backed away. “I have rights, just like you, Dr. Cross. And she’s not my fucking girlfriend. She’s a colleague. This is all business. It’s a story.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, just get out of here. This little boy is three years old. I don’t want my family’s story in a magazine. Not now, not ever.”

Chapter 7

Chapter 7