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belongs to Connie Lou Parks, my aunt, who let me in and who rents it to her daughter, my cousin Karen, and, I would guess, to your friend Pete,” I said. “I used to live here when I was a kid, and by the way, I’m a cop too.”
    “Sure you are,” said the older one.
    “Can I show you my creds?”
    “Careful,” he said.
    I reached to push back my jacket, revealing the shoulder holster.
    “Gun!” the African American officer shouted, and he and his partner dropped into a combat crouch.
    I thought for sure they were going to shoot me if I tried to get my ID, so I eased my hand away, saying, “Of course I’ve got a gun. I am a homicide detective with the Washington, DC, police department. And in fact, I have two guns on me. In addition to the Glock forty, I have a small nine-millimeter Ruger LC9 strapped to my right ankle.”
    “Name?” the older cop demanded.
    “Alex Cross. You?”
    “Detectives Frost and Carmichael. I’m Frost,” he said as he and his partner straightened up. “So here’s what you are going to do, Alex Cross. Strip the jacket, right sleeve first, and toss it here.”
    There was no sense in arguing, so I did as he asked and threw my light sports jacket down the hallway.
    “Cover me, Carmichael,” the older cop said, and he crouched so his partner could keep me squarely in his field of fire.
    They were conducting themselves by the book. They didn’t know me from Adam, and they were handling the situation the way any veteran cop back in DC, including me, would have handled it.
    When Frost got to my jacket, I said, “Left breast pocket.”
    He squinted at me as he backed up a few feet, still in that crouch, and fished out the folder with my badge and ID.
    “Drop your gun, Lou,” Frost said. “He’s who he says he is. Dr. Alex Cross, DC homicide.”
    Carmichael hesitated, then lowered his weapon slightly and demanded, “You have a license to carry concealed in the state of North Carolina, Dr. Cross?”
    “I have a federal carry license,” I said. “I used to be FBI. It’s in there, behind the ID.”
    Frost found it and nodded to his partner.
    Carmichael looked irritated, but he holstered his weapon. Frost did the same, then picked up my jacket, dusted it off, and handed it to me, along with my credentials.
    “Mind telling us what you’re doing here?” Carmichael asked.
    “I’m looking into Stefan Tate’s case. He’s my cousin.”
    Carmichael went stony. Frost looked like some bitterness had crawled up the back of his throat.
    Frost said, “Starksville may not be the big city, Detective Cross, but we are well-trained professionals. Your cousin Stefan Tate? That sonofabitch is as guilty as they come.”

CHAPTER 7
     
    AS I WALKED across the cul-de-sac on Loupe Street to the third bungalow, I was mindful of the unmarked police cruiser pulling out behind me, and I wondered about the strength of the case against my young cousin. I’d have to get Naomi to show me the evidence, and—
    Aunt Connie’s animated voice came through the screen door, followed by the sound of women cackling and men braying over something she’d said. The breeze shifted and carried the mysterious and wonderful odors from the kitchen of my aunt Hattie Parks Tate, my late mother’s younger sister. I hadn’t smelled those scents in thirty-five years, but they made me flash on boyhood memories: climbing these same front steps, smelling these same smells, and reaching for the screen door, eager to be inside.
    This house had been one of my refuges, I thought, remembering how peaceful and orderly it was compared to the routine chaos across the street. Nothing had changed about that,I decided after peering in through the screen and seeing my family sitting around Hattie’s spotless house with plates piled high with her remarkable food, contentment on all their faces.
    “Knock, knock,” I said as I opened the door and stepped in.
    “Dad!” Ali shouted from a wicker couch, waving a bone at me. “You gotta