“She was moved here,” Sampson said.
“I was just going to say the same thing,” I said. “She was shot elsewhere, cleaned up a little, and put here as a message.”
“To who?”
“Other traitors?”
We saw two black Suburbans drive in and park.
“Who the hell let them in?” Officer Jackson said, moving toward the cars. Six men and women in black windbreakers emerged. One guy with slicked-back blond hair and an attitude came straight to the yellow tape and ducked under it. When Officer Jackson tried to cut him off, he flashed an ID and kept coming.
“Dean Weaver, Detectives,” he said. “Central Intelligence Agency.”
“CIA?” Sampson said, pulling himself up to his full six foot nine inches and getting in the man’s way.
“Good—you can hear, and you understand English,” Weaver said, holding up his identification. “We’ll be taking over the investigation from here. I want any and all evidence left in situ. And I ask that you kindly leave.”
I shook my head. “Not a chance. Federal law prohibits the CIA from running investigations in the United States, so I’ll have to ask you to leave my crime scene.”
“And who are you?”
“Dr. Alex Cross, investigative consultant to Metro PD and the FBI. And if you don’t leave, I’ll be calling my liaison, Supervising Special Agent Ned Mahoney, who I’m sure would be glad to explain how the law works domestically.”
The CIA officer looked ready to pop his cork but he kept it under control. “Catherine Hingham is—was—one of ours, Dr. Cross,” he said with clenched fists. “Can I please at least identify her?”
“After you explain how you found out so fast,” I said.
“I…can’t say. It’s…complicated.”
Sampson smiled. “Must happen like that a lot in the spy business.”
The CIA officer sighed. “You have no idea.”
“Let him look, John,” I said, and Sampson let Weaver walk a few more feet forward until he could see the body.
Weaver’s shoulders slumped and he stood there glumly for several minutes, looking at her. “That’s Catherine,” he said when he turned around. “And I don’t care what that sign says. She was no traitor.”
“Thank you,” Sampson said. “But again, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Don’t you want to know about her?” Weaver asked.
“I thought you guys never talk about what you do.”
“We don’t, usually. This is different.”
Chapter
5
Toni Alston, one of the district’s medical examiners, arrived along with two crime scene specialists. They began photographing the area as we stood off to the side, listening to the CIA officer describe Catherine Hingham as one of the smartest, most dedicated field operatives he’d ever worked with.
“Field operative?” I said. “She looks like a—”
“Suburban housewife or a schoolteacher,” Weaver said. “That was the point. She used both those covers, among others.”
According to Weaver, Catherine Hingham had been fluent in five languages and worked in a variety of deep undercover settings. All the while, she raised two children, one of whom was born with cerebral palsy.
“Most mothers would have resigned immediately,” Weaver said. “But Catherine’s husband, Frank, is a speech pathologist and infinitely more qualified to be Emily’s primary caregiver. Does he know yet?”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Sampson said. “And we’d appreciate being the ones to break the news to him.”
“Where does he think she is?” I asked.
The CIA officer looked at me appraisingly. “Training in Los Angeles.”
“Where was she really?”
“Until the day before yesterday, she was in Nogales, Mexico.”
“Doing what?”
Weaver put up his hands. “Now, that I cannot discuss.”
I said, “But given Nogales, we can assume what?”
“Assume nothing. She was on an assignment critical to national security and I’ll have to leave it at that or risk prison time.” He fished a card from his wallet. “But if you’ve got other questions, you can call me, day or night, and whatever I can tell you, I will.”
“Was she one of yours?” I asked, taking the card. “Part of your team, like the others over by the Suburbans?”