Senseless murders, but probably not random, I was thinking.
But what did the Ahmed killings have to do with Ellie and her family?
“We’ve got some similarities and some real differences here,” Sampson told us. “Two families taken out suddenly. Multiple perps. But one behind closed doors, the other outside a mosque. Heavy cutting in both cases.”
“But different cutting,” Bree said. “And if the heads don’t turn up—”
“Something tells me they won’t,” I said.
“Then, maybe we’re talking about trophies, keepsakes.”
“Or proof of purchase,” I said.
They both looked at me. “Maybe this one was business, and the other was personal. Also, CNBC just broke a story that Ghedi Ahmed was the brother of Erasto Ahmed, who’s Al Qaeda, operating out of Somalia.”
“Al Qaeda?” Bree whispered and looked momentarily stumped. “Al Qaeda, Alex?”
We stood there, silent for a moment, trying to comprehend something as horrible as these murders. I thought of Ellie again. I couldn’t stop thinking of her the past few days. Did her trip to Africa have something to do with her murder?
“So, what are we looking at?” Sampson finally spoke again. “Two sides of a war?”
“Could be,” I said. “Or maybe two teams.”
Or maybe one very smart killer, trying to keep us guessing.
Chapter 13
THERE WAS NO question there was federal interest in these cases. The cases were inflammatory and international in scope, and the CIA probably knew something. Two of their people had shown up at Ellie’s house the night of the murders. The question was, How much could I get them to tell me, if anything at all?
I pulled in a few favors from my days with the bureau and got a meeting set up at Langley. The fact that they not only agreed to meet but also waived the first in what was normally a two-meeting protocol told me this was no back-burner issue for them. Usually, the CIA started you with somebody who couldn’t do anything for you before you even got close to anybody who could.
I was given a whole team: Eric Dana from the National Clandestine Service; two spit-shined analysts in their mid- twenties who never spoke a word the whole time I was there; and one familiar face, Al Tunney, from the Office of Trans-national Issues.
Tunney and I had worked together on a Russian mafia case a few years back. I hoped he would advocate for me here, but this was clearly Eric Dana’s meeting, his case. We sat at a gleaming wood table with a view of nothing but green forests and lawns as far as I could see. Peaceful, serene, very misle
ading.
“Detective Cross, why don’t you tell us what you know so far?” Dana asked. “That would be helpful to get things going.”
I didn’t hold back, saw no reason to. I walked them through all three crime scenes—the Cox house, the street outside Masjid Al-Shura, and, finally, the landfill out in Lorton.
I also passed around a set of photos, keeping them chronological.
Then I covered everything I’d learned or heard about gang leaders in Africa, including what I’d read in Ellie’s book. Only then did I mention the CIA officers who had shown up at the first murder scene.
“We won’t comment on that,” said Dana. “Not at this point.”
“I’m not looking for you to open your files to me,” I said to Dana. “But I’d like to know if you’re tracking a killer stateside. And if you are, do you have any idea where he is?”
Dana listened to what I had to say, then shoved a stack of papers back into a file and stood up.
“Okay. Thank you, Detective Cross. This has been most helpful. We’ll get back to you. Let us do our thing here for a few days.”
It wasn’t the response I wanted. “Hold on, what are you talking about? Get back to me now.”
It was a bad moment. Dana stared at his analysts with a look that said, Didn’t anyone brief this guy?
Then he looked back at me, not impolitely. “I think I understand your urgency, Detect—”