Page 33 of The House of Cross

Pak’s home office was to the left of the front hall opposite a living room. The office, like the rest of the house, was fastidiously maintained. It featured a parquet floor and a beautiful standing screen with a carved wood frame and stretched cloth painted with landscapes of mountainous South Korea.

The closet door was locked. So were the desk drawers and various cabinets.

Mahoney found a key to the closet on Pak’s ring. He opened it, revealing supplies and a wall safe with a digital keypad. Another key unlocked the cabinets and drawers, which were filled with files on hundreds of legal cases.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” Mahoney said.

“Let’s take a look around upstairs, figure out how best to tackle it all,” I said.

“More agents.”

“That too.”

Mahoney stepped into the carpeted front hall. I was right behind him.

Someone jiggled the front door, which was not fifteen feet from us. Ned held out his hand and I stopped, hearing little ticks and taps at the door handle.

Mahoney mouthed,Someone is picking it!

He gestured me back into the office, drew his pistol, and eased into the closet, leaving it open a crack. I slid behind the big screen and drew my own weapon.

We didn’t have to wait long.

CHAPTER 24

THE FRONT DOOR OPENEDand shut with a soft click. For almost a minute, there was no other noise, as if the intruder were listening as intently as we were.

Finally, I heard a few careful footfalls on the carpet in the hallway. Another long pause, then the prowler moved more confidently.

Built in three tall sections, the screen I hid behind had delicate hinges joining the outer two panels to the middle. Between the hinges there were thin gaps I peered through.

I didn’t see the burglar I’d expected. The man who appeared in the doorway of Judge Pak’s office was a small, muscular Latino in his late thirties. He was wearing a five-thousand-dollar pale gray Italian suit and sporting a puffed-up bleached-blond pompadour that looked varnished in place. Latex gloves covered hishands, and he carried a gym bag emblazoned with the logo for something called Orangetheory Fitness.

I thought he would head for the wall safe in the closet, in which case he was in for a major surprise. But he had another target.

He walked to a small round table next to a bloodred-leather chair in front of blackout drapes. He drew out a phone and snapped a close-up picture of the table legs, then lifted the table and carefully set it aside.

He got down on his knees and pushed at the baseboard; a piece of the parquet floor rose up with an audible click. With a letter opener from the desk, he pried up the square, then set it on the table.

After taking a look around, he turned on his phone’s flashlight app, shone it into the hole, and reached down with his right arm up to his elbow. I heard five beeps followed by a thunk.

He reached farther in and came out with a six-inch stack of Benjamins, the crisp hundred-dollar bills still in bank wrappers. He put them in the gym bag and began scooping out more.

Mahoney had had enough. He pushed open the closet door, gun up, and aimed at the back of the guy’s head. “Freeze!” he thundered. “FBI!”

The guy startled and jerked forward, pushing his arm deeper into the hole and smashing his head into the wainscoting behind the drapes. He collapsed, groaning.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Mahoney said, pulling a zip tie from his pocket. He straddled the man, grabbed his left wrist, put the zip around it, and went for the right.

The guy screamed, “No, no! My fucking shoulder! It’s dislocated!”

“I don’t care,” Mahoney said, finishing the job. He hauled the man up and into the leather chair.

“Oh, man, my head and neck are killing me,” he said, rolling his head around gingerly, his pompadour crushed. “I think I compressed a disk. And I got a concussion. You are going to hear about this in court, FBI whoever you are.”

“Supervising special agent Edward Mahoney,” Ned said, flashing his ID. As I stepped from behind the screen, he said, “This is Dr. Cross. He works for us as a consultant in criminal behavior. And you are?”

“Sheldon Alvarez, attorney,” he said, staring at me slightly cross-eyed and nodding slowly. “Cross. I’ve seen you before.”

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