Chapter 5

HERE WE WERE, smack in the middle of an age of angry and cynical myth-busting, andsuddenly I was being called “America's Sherlock Holmes” in one of the country's moreinfluential, or at least best-read, magazines. What a complete crock that was, and it wasstill bugging me that morning. An investigative journalist named James Truscott haddecided to follow me around and report on the murder cases I was working on. I'd fooledhim, though. I'd gone on vacation with the family.

“I'm going to Disneyland!” I told Truscott and laughed the last time I'd seen himin D.C. the writer had only smirked in response.

For anyone else, maybe a vacation was an ordinary thing. Happened all the time,twice a year sometimes. For the cross family, it was a major event, a new beginning.

Appropriately, “A Whole New World” was playing in the hotel lobby as wepassed through.

“Come on, you pokes!” Jannie urged us as she ran ahead. Damon, newly mintedteenager, was somewhat more reserved. He stuck close and held the door for nana as wepassed from air-conditioned comfort out into bright southern California sunshine.

Actually, it was a full-out attack on the senses from the moment we left the hotel.

Scents of cinnamon, fried dough, and some kind of zingy Mexican food reached ournoses all at the same time. I could also hear the distant roar of a freight train, or so itseemed, along with screams of terror -the good kind, the “don't stop” kind. I'd heardenough of the other kind to appreciate the difference.