Mary, Mary (Alex Cross 11)

Minutes later, we were on the phone in Fred’s office. I knew Maddux Fielding probably wouldn’t take my call, but Van Allsburg got patched through right away.

“Maddux, I’ve got Alex Cross here. He’s making a pretty good argument for holding off on Mary Wagner, just long enough to interview her.”

“How much more do you think we’re going to get on her?” Fielding asked. “It’s done. We’ve got plenty to take her in.”

“It’s all circumstantial,” I said into the speakerphone. “You’ll have to let her go.”

“Yeah, well I’m working on that.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, already starting to fume. “What aren’t you telling us, Maddux? What’s the point of shutting us out?”

He ignored my legitimate question with one of his trademark stony silences.

“Listen, between LAPD and the Bureau, she’s under constant surveillance; she hasn’t shown any sign of making a move. We know her timetable. Let me just talk to her at home. This could be a last chance to get her in a nondefensive state.” I hated the conciliatory tone of my voice, but I knew the interview with Mary could be important.

“Detective, I know you and I have our disagreements,” I said, “but we’re both going for a quick resolve here. This is what I do best. If you’ll just let me—”

“Be at her house by six,” he said suddenly. “I’m not making any promises to you though, Cross. If she doesn’t go home after work, or if anything else changes, that’s the end of it. We grab her.”

By the time I had arched my eyebrows, there was a click on the line and the call was over.

Chapter 91

SHE DIDN’T BOTHER to use the chain lock. I heard it rattle on the back of the front door as she opened it.

“Mary Wagner?”

“Yes?”

Her large feet were bare, but she still wore the pink maid’s uniform from the Beverly Hills Hotel. She smiled engagingly before she knew who I was.

“I’m Agent Cross with the FBI.” I held up my ID, which included my shield. “May I come in and ask you a few questions? It’s important.”

Her tired face sagged. “It’s about the car, isn’t it? Lord, I wish I could just paint that thing or trade it in or something. I’ve been getting all kinds of embarrassing looks—you wouldn’t believe.”

Her manner was more outgoing than anything I’d seen at the hotel, but she had the beleaguered, animated quality of a public-school kindergarten teacher with way too many students.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “It is about the car. Just a formality; we’re following up on as many blue Suburbans as we can. May I come in? It won’t take long.”

“Of course. I don’t mean to be rude. Please, come on inside. Come.”

I waved to Baker on the curb.

“Five minutes,” I called out, mostly just to let Ms. Wagner know I wasn’t alone at her house. Hopefully, the unmarked LAPD units up and down the street were more invisible to her eyes than mine.

I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. Adrenaline shot through my body in an instant. Was this woman a killer, possibly an insane one? For some strange reason, I didn’t feel threatened by her.

The neatness of the house made a strong first impression on me. The floors were recently swept, and I saw no signs of clutter anywhere.

A wooden cutout hung in the front hallway. It was in the shape of a curtsying farm girl with the word Welcome stenciled across her skirt. The relative disrepair outside, I suddenly realized, was the landlord’s domain. This was hers.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Mary Wagner gestured me toward the living room through an archway to my right. A mismatched sofa and love seat took up most of the room.

Her television was on mute, and a can of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the worn redwood coffee table.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” I asked. “I’m real sorry about that.” Not that I was going to leave.