Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(42)

Chapter





47


Washington, DC



In the six weeks that followed our return from France, life became a lot less hectic. No other federal agents were killed by Maestro, and no innocent families were attacked by the Alejandro cartel.

Elena Martin had given Bree a hefty bonus and a week’s vacation after her ordeal in Paris, both of which were unexpected and appreciated.

John Sampson’s surgeons were impressed by his progress and released him from the hospital three days after his stabbing. He got up on his own and walked from the wheelchair to my car—a little hunched over and limping on the right leg, but he did it. He climbed into my front passenger seat dripping with sweat.

“That hurt?”

“You have no idea,” he said through gritted teeth. “But that’s not stopping me from getting out of that hospital. People die in those places, you know.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that,” I said and drove him home.

At the end of July, my older boy, Damon, came home for two weeks after his stint as a camp counselor was done. He and I and Ali and Jannie played a lot of basketball before he headed back to Davidson, where he was to be a resident adviser in a freshman dorm.

Ali often seemed tired and cranky, which was unusual. Ordinarily, my youngest is upbeat and full of energy. Nana Mama had commented on the constant yawning and grumpiness as well, and I was thinking about taking him to his pediatrician.

After a month and a half of rehab, Sampson was walking three miles a day without the cane. He had recently returned to work when we both got a call from Ned Mahoney at a quarter to six on a Thursday morning.

“We’ve got another body with a confession,” he said. “I want you both there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Congressional Country Club,” Mahoney said.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the toniest golf club in the greater DC area. I got out and offered to help John, but he waved me off.

“I got this, Alex,” Sampson said, though he looked stiff climbing from the car and he limped a little when we walked over to meet Ned.

“We’ve got a problem,” Mahoney said. “Victim is DEA, and the DEA got here first.”

“Where’s ‘here’?” I asked.

“Eighteenth hole.”

There were five of them in DEA windbreakers when we came around the side of the country club and approached the eighteenth hole, where a body was propped up and lashed to the flagpole. Male, Hispanic, and slightly bigger than a horse jockey, he had been badly beaten and shot in the face.

One of the DEA agents, a woman in her forties with pale skin and brassy-red hair, noticed us and came our way with both hands up. “Whoever you are, back off.”

“Supervising Special Agent Mahoney, FBI,” Mahoney said. “This is our case.”

“The hell it is,” she said. “I am Special Agent in Charge Jill Hanson and the victim was one of our best.”

“Be that as it may, Special Agent in Charge Hanson, the FBI has had control of this investigation since CIA officer Catherine Hingham’s body was dumped with her confession almost two months ago.”

“Be that as it may, Supervising Special Agent Mahoney,” she said, “we are gathering our own evidence and will conduct our own internal investigation as well.”

Mahoney was not happy. “I want the confession.”

“What confession?”

“The one the groundskeeper saw,” Ned said. “The one in the envelope.”

“Oh,” Hanson said. “No, we are keeping that until the allegations can be looked into by our internal investigations team.”

“Are you looking for a federal injunction or something?”

“Bring it,” she said, smiling. “In the meantime, the confession stays with us. Don’t worry, it’s been properly bagged and entered into our evidence logs.”

“Can you at least identify the deceased?” I said.

“DEA Special Agent Eddie Hernandez,” she said. “He was a superstar in Albuquerque who transferred here to work intelligence three months ago.”

Sampson said, “Mr. Hernandez have a family?”

“Married. Two kids—a boy, ten, and a girl, seven.”

“I advise you to move them, put them under witness protection,” I said.

“Cartel won’t go after them,” Hanson said. “They’ve gotten the man they wanted.”

“I don’t think the cartel did this,” Mahoney said.

“I do,” she said. “This was payback for our taking down Marco Alejandro, pure and simple.”

“Maybe you’re trying to protect your department’s hero,” I said. “But his surviving family members are in danger.”

Hanson said nothing.

Sampson said, “Do you really want to be responsible for two dead kids and their dead mom?”

The DEA supervising special agent’s jaw tightened and then she stomped off, digging her cell phone from her pocket.





Chapter





48




Matthew Butler wore an earpiece and carried a microphone and a small video camera as he slipped among the satellite trucks and reporters already swarming the parking lot of the Congressional Country Club. In his pocket, he carried the ID of Harry Falk, a freelance radio reporter and internet blogger.