Page 8 of The House of Cross

At 6:24:50 p.m., a blond woman wearing a reflective vest, headlamp, neck gaiter, safety glasses, and a small hydration pack ran by. Seconds later, at 6:24:58, the Cadillac rolled past the camera.

The footage cut to a second doorbell camera, more wide-angled than the first, positioned cattycorner to and west of Franklin’s house. At 6:25:10, the Cadillac pulled into the drive at the far right of the frame. Pearson exited the car and went around the back to open Franklin’s door. At 6:25:16, as Pearson passed the trunk, the runner appeared and cut diagonally across the street.

“Pack is off and in her left hand,” I said.

When she hit the sidewalk, Mahoney said, “She’s got a gun.”

We saw the whole thing. The killer dropped the pack beside her on the sidewalk and adopted a classic combat-shooting stance, both hands on the suppressed pistol, squared off to the target and slightly crouched. She said something that caused the judge and her driver to turn, shot Franklin twice in the face and Pearson twice in the back as she tried to escape.

Then she calmly picked up the pack and her spent shells, put the gun with the shells in the pack, and put the pack back on. With her left hand, she pushed against her neck as if to crack it and jogged off at 6:25:28.

The footage ended.

“We don’t know where she came from or went afterward?” I asked.

“That’s all they’ve sent us so far,” Mahoney said.

“It’s phenomenal. Just wish we could see her face without the glasses, headband, and neck gaiter. Do me a favor, Sergeant Davis?”

“Sure, Dr. Cross, anything.”

“Google ‘Professor Willa Whelan, George Washington University Law School.’”

Davis did and up popped a picture of a pretty blond woman in her forties, very fit, who was lecturing a group of students in an amphitheater. Below was a link to a faculty bio. The sergeant clicked on it and I read that, like Emma Franklin, Whelan had attended Harvard Law School; they had been in the same class. After graduation, Whelan had done a clerkship with a judge in the Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals, worked ten years as an assistant U.S. attorney in Little Rock, then joined the faculty of GW.

I read all the way to the bottom and smiled at the last line, which I read to the others: “‘And in her free time, Professor Whelan enjoys running and competitive shooting.’”

CHAPTER 6

BREE SAT ALONE INthe kitchen, staring at her laptop, reading more coverage of Ryan Malcomb’s death, which was not as extensive as she would have expected, given that his personal wealth was in excess of four billion dollars.

She kept picking up the remote control and changing the channel on the small TV in the kitchen from one financial-news network to another. All of them were giving Malcomb’s death airtime, and the reports all told the same story: a brilliant young man with physical challenges who had managed to build a powerful, ultra-secretive tech company, only to die looking for a ranch in the American West.

Bree knew Mahoney thought getting involved in Malcomb’s death would be a waste of time. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that they did not have the entire story.

After leaving DC Metro, Bree had been almost immediately hired by the Bluestone Group, an international investigative and security firm based in Arlington, Virginia. She no longer had the apparatus and clout of law enforcement behind her, but the move had given her the freedom to pursue leads wherever they took her.

She searched for real estate agents in Elko, Nevada, and took out her phone. On the second ring of Bree’s first call, a woman picked up. “High Desert Realty,” she said in a nasal voice. “Regina Everly speaking.”

“Hi, Regina. I’m Bree Stone with the Bluestone Group here in Washington, DC. We have been hired to independently look into the death of Ryan Malcomb and I am trying to find the real estate agent who signed the nondisclosure agreement with him.”

There was a long pause before Everly answered. In a much quieter voice, she said, “You did not hear this from me, but that would be CeCe Butler over at Nevada Ranch and Land Company.”

“Regina, if I’m ever looking for real estate in Elko, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“Why, thank you, Ms. Stone,” she said, and hung up.

Bree found the number for the Nevada Ranch and Land Company, called, and asked for CeCe Butler. Bree was told Butler wasn’t in at the moment, so she left a vague message asking her to call back.

She figured it was probably common knowledge in Elko that Butler was the real estate agent who had helped Malcomb, which meant reporters knew. Bree feared the woman might not return the call, but to her surprise, twenty minutes later, she did.

“This is CeCe Butler,” she said. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Bree said. “I work for a private investigative firmout of Washington, DC. We look into stuff all over the world for our clients.”

“Who hired you to look into Malcomb’s death?”

“That, I am not at liberty to say,” Bree said, knowing she was walking a fine line between truth and fiction.

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