Bree said, “If this goes on another fifteen minutes, I’ll take the heat and do it myself.”
Seeing I wasn’t going to use the siren and lights, Ali and Jannie quickly got bored, put on their earbuds, and retreated into their phones. Bree started to do the same before I said, “You haven’t asked me about my day.”
She frowned. “Oh? I guess I didn’t. I’m sorry. I was so preoccupied with packing for Paris.”
“I get it.”
“You’ve got my undivided attention for the next fourteen minutes. But if we haven’t moved, then you’re lighting up that siren.”
“Deal,” I said, then described the scene beneath the spy museum, the arrival of the CIA officers who’d worked with the deceased, and Sampson’s and my subsequent trip to see Catherine Hingham’s husband and two children.
We’d found Frank Hingham feeding lunch to Emily, their birdlike young daughter, in her large, elaborate wheelchair. He was awaiting the arrival of a nurse’s aide so he could take their son, Luke, to a soccer game. After the aide arrived, we took Hingham aside and told him his wife had been found murdered, was last seen alive in Nogales, Mexico.
After glancing in the back seat to make sure our kids weren’t listening, Bree asked, “How’d he react?”
“Like we’d put a spear through his heart,” I said. “He literally fell down, crashed against his desk. He was shocked and then sobbing. He said he didn’t know how he was going to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Tell his kids, especially his daughter. Emily and her mom were very close.”
“Did you get the family computers?”
“And we searched her office. Hingham gave us permission before taking his son to the soccer game. He said he’d tell Luke and Emily afterward at home.”
“You let him go?”
“If you’d seen him, you’d know he wasn’t involved.”
“You mentioned a confession,” Bree said. “You ask him about it?”
“Not yet,” I said. “It felt like it might be too much, too soon for him.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Scanned it. But we’ll be taking a close look at the family finances before we talk to the husband again. Or a forensic accountant will.”
Bree said, “I’m working with one of those on this case. He’s a Brit, former Scotland Yard, looks like he walked out of Downton Abbey.”
I laughed. “Your life has changed.”
She looked at her watch, said, “Yes, it has, and that’s fourteen minutes and we haven’t moved twenty feet.”
Knowing better than to argue, I leaned over, pulled out the bubble, slapped it on the roof, and threw the siren switch.
Ali and Jannie cheered when the siren started whooping and the bubble started flashing neon blue and red. The cars in front of us moved aside just enough to let me into the breakdown lane, where I hit the gas.
Bree clapped and smiled. “Now I am definitely on my way to Paris!”
I dropped her at the curb at Dulles fifteen minutes later. After hugging her goodbye, telling her I loved her, and wishing her good luck, I watched until she was inside, heading toward the checkin counter.
I’ll admit it—as I got back in the car to take the kids home, there was a small part of me that was envious of Bree’s new and exciting life. And another part that was a little worried about who my wife might be when she returned.
Chapter
9
The following day, I called Bree at six a.m. DC time, knowing it was noon in Paris and her plane should have landed a few hours earlier. She answered on the second ring.
“I just got out of the shower and was going to call you,” she said.
“How’s Paris?”
“I took a walk after checking into my hotel and it’s as beautiful as my mother said.”
“No problems with the language?”
“None. I fit right in. The cabdriver, the clerk at the front desk, and the waiter where I ate breakfast were all surprised I was from the U.S. with my accent.”
“Bluestone picked the right detective. A full day in front of you?”
“Yes. I’m going to meet with the head of the Paris office. You?”
“Sampson and I are going to check out the forensics lab,” I said and yawned.
“I love you.”
“And I love you. Even from thousands of miles across the ocean.”
“You’re a sweet man, Alex Cross.”
“I have my moments. Most of them with you.”