But when a waiter came over to pour coffee and take his order, Sunday behaved himself. He was hungry and had a busy day ahead.
“The frittata, the lemon and ricotta pancakes, and a large fresh-squeezed OJ,” he said.
“Bacon?” the waiter asked.
Sunday made a face as if he might be ill, said, “No, never again.”
When the waiter left, the writer read the story about the Francones murder with great interest, especially the fact that Alex Cross had been assigned to the case. Well, who else, right?
Rather than getting truly pissed off, however, Sunday refocused on the task at hand. Make a scene, he thought.
Looking around again, the writer noticed that a nerdy man in a Brooks Brothers suit that screamed professional boor had taken a seat at the table to his left. The boor was studying his iPhone intently. Sunday recognized him as a syndicated political pundit and mainstay of the morning talk shows, a pasty-faced guy in a bow tie who never used a single-syllable word when a six-syllable one would do.
Perfect target, the writer realized, and began to enjoy himself. Serendipity, that was what it was. Chance fortune.
“Porn?” Sunday called over to the pundit.
The chattering head looked up, confused.
The writer gestured at the phone and observed in that nasal, whiny voice: “I figured you had to be watching something, like, really nasty to be that locked on.”
“Hardly,” the man shot back in a harsh whisper. “Have some couth.”
“That one of the specials here?” Sunday asked, glancing down at his menu. “I must have missed that. Does couth come poached or fried?”
The pundit was studying his iPhone even more intently now.
“I know you,” Sunday said. “You’re a guy who’s got an opinion on everything. So I want to know: Do you think Pooh was right?”
The pundit sighed, looked at the writer, said, “Pooh? As in the bear?”
“Or Ursus mellitus, as you might say,” Sunday replied good-naturedly. “Now, I consider Pooh Bear to be one of the great thinkers of all time. Right up with Marcus Aurelius, Nietzsche, and Bob Dylan. Especially when it came to breakfast.”
The pundit got exasperated. “What are you babbling about?”
Sunday acted offended, touched his fingers to his flaming-red hair.
“Babbling?” he said. “Thierry Mulch? Well, no more than you in your latest column. All I was doing was discussing Pooh Bear and his immortal disquisition with Piglet regarding breakfast.
“Don’t you remember?” Sunday demanded angrily. “Pooh Bear thought breakfast was the most exciting part of the day. There’s his thesis, my good man. Agree or disagree? No reason to say ‘affirmative’ or ‘demonstrably false.’ A simple yes or no will do.”
Chapter
10
Sensing the bed shifting as a new weight compressed it, I came slowly to consciousness, feeling as if I’d gone to sleep only a few minutes before. But when I groggily opened my eyes, it was broad daylight and my beautiful wife, Bree, lay on her belly beside me, dressed for the gym. She was up on her elbows, her chin cradled in her hands. Tears clouded her eyes, but she was beaming.
“Sorry to wake you up, Alex. I know you got in late and the Mad Man Francones case and all. But I thought you’d want to know.”
I blinked dumbly, yawned, and said, “Know what?”
“Jeannie Shelton just called, from the lab?”
“Okay?” I said, glancing at the clock. Ten past nine. What ungodly time had I gone to bed? It had to have been after—
“Alex, the burned body in that old factory wasn’t Ava,” Bree said.
That was like guzzling a pot of French roast. I sat up, alert and jittery.