Kill Alex Cross

“No,” Hala said, too quietly to be heard by anyone but herself. “Thank you. And thank Allah.”

POLICE WORK ISN’T usually about surprises. It’s more about routines. This was completely different. Something incredibly strange was going on, not all bad, necessarily, but strange. It was like no case I had ever worked before, or come across.

One of the special agents in Ned Mahoney’s unit at the Bureau called me on Monday morning and said he wanted to send over some files.

“Files?” I said. “Like, just any files?”

“Some reinterviews from the Coyle investigation we’d like to get your take on,” he said.

After days of being totally shut out, this request felt random, even disorganized on the part of the Bureau.

I tried calling Ned Mahoney several more times that morning, but all I got was his voice mail. It didn’t make sense. Why would he pull me in and avoid me at the same time? Or was I just being paranoid?

When the courier came, I expected at least one of those files to be about Ray Pinkney, the van driver I’d already interviewed. Instead, what I got was a thick stack of second-and third-tier leads, which I guess made me the Bureau’s newest second-or third-tier gofer. What the hell was that all about?

“They just want to keep an eye on you, sugar,” Sampson said in the car on the way to the first interview. “This is the Bureau’s version of a short leash. You’re officially on it now. I guess I am too.”

He was probably right. John’s always good for a dose of perspective, and common sense, which is why I wanted him along. I hadn’t asked anyone’s permission to bring a partner, but as we say in the business, Fuck that.

“I’ve seen this woman on TV,” Sampson said. He was looking over the files on his lap while I drove. “Don’t think it was BET.”

“Probably not,” I said. “More likely MSNBC, or maybe Meet the Press.”

Isabelle Morris had been the scheduled speaker at the Branaff School on the morning of the kidnapping. Her field was U.S.–Middle East policy, and she was a regular fixture on the Sunday-morning talk circuit. Obviously, some part of that equation was enough for the Bureau to keep her on their radar. And now she was on mine.

When we pulled up to her red stone town house on Calvert Street, a Grand Marquis was parked out front with a suit behind the wheel and a big Starbucks cup on the dash.

I didn’t recognize the agent, but he gave us a nod as we started up the front steps. “Good luck,” he called out.

“Why? Am I going to need it?” I asked, but he just grinned, shook his head, and went back to slurping his coffee.

“DO YOU BELIEVE that fricking guy drinking fricking lattes down there? I mean, twenty-four hours a day he’s parked in front of my house — him or one of his moron cronies. Really? Really? All the criminal possibilities in the world. This is how you people want to spend your resources. Is that supposed to impress me somehow? Or maybe just keep me from slipping out of the country?”

Those were Isabelle Morris’s first words to us, delivered rapid-fire, starting more or less the second she’d opened the door. She was shorter than I expected, maybe five one, or less. On TV, she was always just a talking head — which I guess was still the case here.

“Ms. Morris, I’m Detective Cross. We spoke briefly on the phone,” I said. “This is Detective Sampson. Can we talk inside? Out of the glare of the FBI? I think that might be better. Please?”

She stared at me a little but then stepped back to let us in. We followed her through the house to a kitchen and family room at the back, with a glass-walled breakfast nook looking out to a brambly garden. A teenaged boy on the couch was playing Mortal something or other with headphones on, and he never even looked over at us.

Ms. Morris went straight to the stove, turned down the flame under a steaming double boiler, and then started chopping a pile of red peppers on the butcher-block counter. When I realized she was playing ball’s-in-your-court with me, I jumped in.

“Ms. Morris —”

“Isabelle,” she said.

“I know you don’t want us here right now, can’t blame you, but you can at least understand why the Bureau and the police might be interested in you?”

She stopped chopping and looked up at the ceiling.

“Hmm, let’s see here. Because I’m on MSNBC more than Fox? Because I worked for the Fulani campaign in the nineties? Or maybe because I dared to criticize the Coyle administration for egregious mistakes they themselves have admitted making in Afghanistan and Pakistan? Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

“Yes, actually,” I said. “All of which is irrelevant to why I’m here. I need to get a statement from you about the night before, morning of, and afternoon following Zoe and Ethan’s disappearance.”

“So you can look for inconsistencies,” she said.

“Not me,” I said. “But someone, yes. That’s the general idea.”

“Unbelievable,” she said. “The FBI and the DC police have no clue where those poor kids are, so they keep up the witch-hunt with people like me, just to be able to say they’re doing something. And