Weaver cocked his head. “You are sharp, Dr. Cross. Yes, Catherine was one of mine and she entered the CIA with several of those officers. We were a team.”
“Were you or any other members of your team also in Nogales?” Sampson asked.
The agent’s eyes shifted; he blinked. “No. I wish we had been, but Catherine wanted to work this one solo.”
“Was she corruptible? Financially? Ideologically?” I asked.
“No!” Weaver said sharply. “One hundred percent no. Catherine was…one of the good people—”
“Dr. Cross?” Toni Alston interrupted.
“Excuse me,” I said and went over to the medical examiner.
Alston told me her preliminary examination indicated Hingham had died roughly thirty-six hours earlier from a single, small-caliber gunshot to the head. Her left pinkie and left ring finger were broken.
“Torture?” I asked.
“Possibly. Broken fingers must have been painful. But I’m not seeing any other marks on her so far,” Alston said. “I’ll know more once I get her back to my lab. And we found this in an inside pocket of her hoodie.”
She went over and retrieved an evidence bag. Inside was a white letter-size envelope. Printed on it in a large, garish red font was one word: CONFESSION.
The text was so vivid, Weaver could see it from twenty feet away. “Confession?” he said, coming toward us. “I want to see that right now.”
This time I stepped in front of him, my hands way out to my sides as if I were guarding him in a hoops game. “Mr. Weaver, that will not happen without some kind of waiver from the Department of Justice,” I said. “There’s nothing you or I can do without one. Now, please leave the crime scene or I’ll have you forcibly removed.”
The CIA officer wanted to paste me; I could see it in his eyes and the bunching of his muscles. But a cooler head prevailed. He nodded and said, “I’m going to see about that right now.”
Weaver walked away, shooed the rest of his team back into the Suburbans, and left.
I was about to suggest we get hold of the parking lot’s security cameras when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
When I saw the text on the screen, I felt instantly exposed. I looked all around and back to where the Suburbans had vanished.
“Alex?” Sampson said.
I held up a finger and then read the text again.
Top of the morning, Dr. C. It’s been months, hasn’t it? I know I’ve been playing catchup these last few days. Bree’s left Metro PD behind her. How exciting! Jannie’s entering her senior year soon. Damon’s killing it at Davidson. Ali’s becoming quite the young detective. And you’re on the new case of the Traitor in the Parking Garage. I swear, if I take my eyes off you for a moment, Alex Cross, your entire life changes.—M
Chapter
6
Across the Potomac River, in an Arlington office tower, Bree Stone knocked on the door to the conference room and entered. Five people waited for her at the table. Four were women, two in their late twenties and two in their forties. All were dressed for business. The lone male was silver-haired, craggily handsome, and dressed impeccably in a bespoke blue suit, starched white shirt, and red tie with teal polka dots.
“Bree Stone,” he said in a British accent, standing to shake her hand. “Good to finally meet you in person.”
“Desmond Slattery,” she said, returning the smile. “When did you fly in?”
“I caught the red-eye from Heathrow,” he said.
“And here you are, not a hair out of place.”
“Got to keep the reputation clean,” he said and chuckled.
The petite, fortyish brunette at the head of the table said, “Sit anywhere you’d like, Bree.”
Elena Martin, the founder and president of Bluestone Group, was one of the smartest women Bree had ever met, a super-dynamo who needed less than five hours of sleep a night. A former analyst and investigator with the Defense Intelligence Agency, Martin was also an entrepreneurial visionary; after leaving the military, she quickly built Bluestone into one of the top private-security firms in the country by aggressively recruiting and hiring highly respected law enforcement professionals like Bree.
After taking a seat next to Slattery—a former inspector at Scotland Yard—Bree smiled at the other women at the table, whom she’d never seen before.
Elena Martin introduced the other woman in her forties as Patricia Nolan.
“Ms. Nolan is corporate counsel at Pegasus International,” Elena Martin said. “Do you know the company?”