Criss Cross

Chapter 79

McLean, Virginia

The next morning, Ned Mahoney and I drove toward a gate in a six-foot wrought-iron fence that surrounded an estate in horse country. Set well back off the road, the sprawling Colonial home was white with green shutters and trim.

“I’m still not thinking it’s a good idea for you to be here, Alex,” Mahoney said when the pickup truck in front of us turned and rolled up to the gate. We came in behind it.

“I disagree,” I said. “I’ll be the rattler of cages.”

“We have a search warrant.”

“Who says we have to show our cards so soon?”

“What are you hoping for?” Mahoney asked as a hand came out of the window of the pickup and pressed a button on an intercom. “A confession? ‘I’m M, and I organized all the mayhem because of you, Alex Cross’?”

“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for,” I said. We heard a loud buzzing noise and then the gate swung open. “And if we handle this right, we just might get it and save ourselves a whole lot of time and trouble.”

Ned followed the pickup through the gate and up the drive. “Do me a favor, and let me do the talking?”

“I think my presence will provide more than enough leverage.”

We parked on brick pavers in a circular area surrounded by azaleas, which were beginning to bloom. A row of dogwoods lined the walkway we took to the front door. We ignored the looks from the uniformed landscaping crew and knocked.

A Latina woman in her mid-forties answered the door. Somewhere inside, classical piano music played. “Yes?”

Mahoney showed his identification. “FBI, ma’am. We’d like to speak with the lady of the house.”

The woman stared at the credentials. “FBI? She’s not well. I’ll call her son. He lives just down the street.”

“We’re going to see him next, but we need to talk to her now,” Ned insisted. “What’s your name, by the way?”

I suppose she thought Ned wanted this information so he could check her immigration status, because she crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and said, “I am Maria Joan, and I have a green card, six years now. I will be a U.S. citizen in seven months. I study for it. And I know the laws. Fourth Amendment. You cannot make me let you in without probable cause or a search warrant.”

Mahoney smiled and reached for his inner breast pocket. “Well, Ms. Joan, you are right about that. But we do have a federal search warrant. So if you don’t let us in to see your boss, you could be obstructing justice.”

Mahoney held the warrant up for her to see. She scanned it, nodded, and grudgingly stood aside so we could enter.

The oval foyer was slate-floored. At the center, between us and a weeping wall fountain, stood a pedestal table with a vase holding a riot of a floral arrangement that scented the air with its perfume.

We followed Maria Joan down a hallway off the foyer, past a library, and toward the sound of the piano music into a large open space that contained a kitchen out of a glossy magazine and a living area beyond with furniture of equally high finish and taste.

There were fresh roses in two vases and a nice tea service on the round table in front of a woman sitting in a wheelchair turned slightly away from us. She was watching Bloomberg Television on a large screen set into the wall.

The volume was on mute. Piano music played from speakers.

Maria Joan went around the front of the woman, shook her lightly, and said, “You have visitors, Mrs. M.”