I hissed, “There was someone outside just now, shining a light in on me.”
That changed everything. We scrambled into clothes, got our service weapons, and went outside.
Judging from the angle, we figured the light had come from the roof of the Morses’ house, next door, and well above the scaffolding that workers were erecting to sandblast the exterior walls.
We knew their lockbox combo, so we got the keys and went inside, guns drawn.
The house was empty. The interior windows, walls, and floors were covered with plastic sheeting coated with sawdust. There were small piles of construction debris here and there, swept up but not removed.
We found plenty of footprints of different sizes both downstairs and upstairs and definitely in the bedrooms that had dormers overlooking the roof. The plastic sheeting over one of the dormers had been cut away. From the window, we couldn’t see anyone out on the roof or any dusty footprints.
Still, the only window in the house that wasn’t covered with plastic was this one.
I climbed out on the roof and moved to where I judged the flashlight had been held. I found traces of sawdust being blown away on the breeze.
“Someone was out there,” I said when I climbed back into the house. “But the evidence is disappearing fast.”
We went back to our own house, and Bree said, “It was him, M, wasn’t it?”
“We have to assume so.”
“I hate that he’s watching us.”
“When I think about it, I want to punch a wall.”
“What about the cameras you were talking about?”
“Ordering them today. And for this place too. I’ll bill the owners.”
“Do we move Nana Mama and the kids? Send them to your dad’s in Florida?”
It wasn’t a bad idea, though I knew it would drive all three of them nuts for various reasons. “Let me think about that.”
My phone rang. Keith Karl Rollins.
“You’re up early,” I said.
“I need only five hours a night,” the FBI cybercrime consultant sniffed. “And I thought you should be the first to know.”
He left me hanging. I said, “First to know what?”
“The Ethereum cryptocurrency used to pay the ransom on Diane Jenkins started to move late last night from all those accounts. I tracked the transfers through twenty-four different stops, most of them designed to strip metadata. A few of my bugs got through, though, and you won’t believe where the funny money finally ended up.”
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.”
Chapter 80
I almost lost my balance when Maria Joan said those words.
You have visitors, Mrs. M.
Mahoney’s face had gone slack, but it firmed before he came around in front of the wheelchair with me. I stopped short at her appearance.
The last time I’d seen Margaret Edgerton, she had had the poise and polish of a wealthy and accomplished businesswoman. But the polish had gone off her in the four weeks that had passed since that day at the Greensville Correctional Center when we’d both watched her son die the cruel and barbaric death he’d chosen.
She looked exhausted and wore tinted sunglasses, a plush blue robe, and thick socks. Her hands shook slightly, and there was an air of bewilderment about her when she turned her head and peered at me and Mahoney.
“Visitors?” she said in a sleepy, slightly slurred voice. “I thought the therapists had all gone for the day, and I’m tired, Maria.”
“Mrs. Edgerton, I’m Special Agent Mahoney with the FBI,” Mahoney said, stepping forward with his credentials and the warrant. “You can go now, Ms. Joan.”
“She won’t be able to read anything you show her,” she said, walking into the kitchen.
Mrs. Edgerton looked puzzled. “What’s this about?” Mahoney said, “The kidnapping of a young mom named Diane Jenkins.”
The old woman wrinkled her nose and then squirmed upright.
“Kidnapping?” she said, indignant. “Me? How dare you!”
She began to cough and hack. She waved her fingers in the air.
“Please,” Maria Joan said, rushing back into the room toward an oxygen canister set on a dolly in the corner. “You’ve upset her, and she can’t breathe now.”