36
TRAFFIC WAS SNARLED as I crossed back into the district, and I wondered what Ali had gotten himself into that was so bad it deserved an immediate meeting. The headmistress wouldn’t tell me a thing.
Inching over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, I decided to call Alden Lindel. He answered on the third ring.
“This is Alex Cross, Mr. Lindel. I’m happy to tell you that Gretchen did not die in that video. It was a fake.”
Her father made a noise partway between a cough and a cry.
“Oh, good!” He gasped. “Oh, thank God! Are you sure? How do you know?”
“Because a very talented FBI computer wizard said that the video’s audio was altered. The sounds weren’t real.”
“But it was Gretchen’s voice,” he said.“ I’d swear it.”
“I believe you, Mr. Lindel. But that wasn’t the sound of her dying. I wanted you to know. Please tell your wife.”
“Yes. Yes, right away.”
“I’ll be in touch if I hear more.”
“Well, I could still use someone to talk to, Dr. Cross,” he said. “Eliza, Gretchen’s mother, and I … we were separated before Gretchen was taken, and this has been even more of a strain. And my mother’s not well, and we’re thinking about endings.”
“I’m sorry to hear all that, Mr. Lindel. Give my office a call tomorrow. We?
?ll make an appointment.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cross.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and I clicked the phone off.
Traffic was moving, finally. Fifteen minutes later I parked close to Washington Latin and hurried inside toward the waiting area outside the offices of the headmistress and the other school administrators.
From well down the hallway I could see Coulter Tate sitting on the right side of the waiting room. He held an ice pack to his face. A woman I took to be his mother had her arm around his shoulders and was whispering in his ear.
Two or three chairs away, George Putnam pressed a bag of ice to his throat. Sitting beside him was a man I figured was his father, a big dude with a wrestler’s build stuffed into a five-thousand-dollar suit. He was staring bullets across the room at Ali, who sat with his eyes closed.
“Dr. Cross?”
I looked behind me and spotted Mrs. Dalton hurrying over.
“Dr. Cross,” the headmistress said with an exasperated sigh. “Before we get to the fight, I must speak to you first about your son’s insubordinate behavior. A school like Latin—”
“Please, I’d like to speak to my son in private, right now.”
“Dr. Cross,” she said, raising her chin. “I don’t think you—”
“As far as I’m concerned, and with all due respect, I think Ali did the right thing by not talking, Mrs. Dalton. He’s a minor, but he has certain rights. Among those is his right to have a parent present during questioning.”
“That’s with the police,” she said. “I run a school, and I wish to be present when he first tells his side of things.”
“You really want to fight me on parental rights? Because you’ll waste a bunch of money on lawyers and you’ll lose.”
Mrs. Dalton was a smart woman used to getting her way, a woman who hated losing. I could see it in her eyes.
But she said, “Very well, Dr. Cross. You can use my office. Ten minutes. There are other parents and students to consider.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dalton. I know you’re in a difficult situation, and I appreciate your handling it with such grace.”