Criss Cross (Alex Cross) - James Patterson Page 0,70

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.”

I was beginning to feel bad about coming.

The aide got the oxygen line below Mrs. Edgerton’s nose and then snarled at us, “Can’t you come back? She had a stroke three weeks ago. It damaged her vision, and she gets anxious.”

Now I felt really bad, but I said to Mahoney, “Tell her exactly why we came.”

Mrs. Edgerton’s head cocked and swiveled toward me. “Who else is here?”

Mahoney said, “A consultant, ma’am. But back to why we’re here. The kidnapped woman’s husband paid her ransom in what’s called a cryptocurrency.”

“I know what that is, blockchain nonsense,” she snapped. “So what?”

Before Mahoney could answer, Mrs. Edgerton waved her shaky left hand in my direction. “You answer. Consultant.”

“Mrs. Edgerton,” Ned said. “I am in charge here.”

“I don’t care,” she said, wheeling six or seven inches toward me. “I may be legally blind now, but I still have most of my hearing, my rights, and my wits about me. Mr. Consultant,