Page 41 of The House of Cross

“After hearing about the DNA report, I felt like I had zero grounds to be there,” Bree said. “I felt like I’d poked someone with a stick on their worst day, and I pride myself on not being that kind of person, you know?”

“I do,” I said. “And I hear and see how upset you are, but we’re investigators. We ask questions at difficult times. When you went, you thought you were doing the right thing by confronting her.”

“I got the same notice about the DNA results she did, but I didn’t look at the Google Alert before I went in.”

“Would you have done things differently if you had?”

“I don’t think I would have gone inside at all. I mean, what’s the point? Even if he was M, he’s dead, and he kept it from her. The only person I was trying to help with my questions was me so I could prove I was right.”

“How many people has Maestro killed over the years we’ve been chasing them?”

She shrugged. “More than a hundred.”

“You don’t think more than a hundred dead people played a part in your thinking? Because I know they always play a part in my mind when I’m thinking about M. Always.”

“They do for me too,” she admitted.

“There you go, then,” I said. “You went to Cleveland with a nobler purpose, caused a little unintentional agitation in service of that purpose, and now you move on.”

She shifted in her chair, her brow knitting. “And give up on identifying M?”

“Maybe give it a rest. It might help you get some perspective.”

She thought about that, nodded, and came over to the bed, smiling. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Bree bent over to give me a kiss, but my cell phone started playing Ned Mahoney’s jingle before our lips could meet. “I have to answer that.”

“I know,” she said, drawing back. “Rain check?”

“Definitely,” I said, and answered the call. “Ned?”

Mahoney said, “We’ve gotten a disturbing tip that we have to run down no matter the political implications.”

CHAPTER 29

BETWEEN DECEMBER 26 ANDJanuary 2, the nation’s capital is usually dead. Congress is in recess, the federal agencies are operating on skeleton crews, and the president is off skiing or golfing with family somewhere.

But today, three days after the FBI received an anonymous tip on its hotline, the offices Mahoney and I entered on Capitol Hill were crowded with young people working at breakneck speed. Cell phones were ringing constantly and everyone was shouting over one another.

“Welcome to the office of President-Elect Sue Winter,” said the harried woman with curly ginger hair who met us at the elevator. “And who are you again?”

“FBI, ma’am,” Mahoney said.

“Oh,” she said, clearly taken aback. “No one told me the FBI was coming.”

“And you are?”

“Hester Little,” she said, extending her hand. “I work for the transition team.”

“In what capacity?” he said, shaking it.

“Assistant to the assistant director of transition personnel,” she said, squinting. “I’m sorry, the person at the front desk said you were looking for a job.”

“Not at this time, Ms. Little,” Mahoney said, smiling at her and stepping back. “We’d like to talk with the director of transition personnel.”

The assistant to the assistant director’s face fell. “I’m afraid that’s kind of impossible. She’s meeting with the inaugural team at the moment.”

---