Critically acclaimed New York Times bestselling author J. T. Ellison delivers another riveting novel featuring the incomparable Dr. Samantha Owens

Waking to sirens in the night is hardly unusual for Samantha Owens. No longer a medical examiner, she doesn’t lose sleep over them, but a routine police investigation in her neighborhood has her curious. When her homicide detective friend, Darren Fletcher, invites her to look over the evidence, she jumps at the chance and immediately realizes the crime scene has been staged. What seems to be a clear case of murder/suicide—a crime of passion—is anything but. The discovery of toxic substances in hidden vials indicates that something much more sinister is at play…

As Fletch and Sam try to understand what and who they are dealing with, they are summoned to a meeting at the State Department. High-level officials are interested in what they know and seem to be keeping secrets of their own. It’s up to Sam and Fletch to uncover what lies behind the deception as the threat of bioterrorism is exposed, and her boyfriend, Xander Whitfield, may be in the line of fire.

Unsure who to trust, Sam and Fletch find themselves up against very powerful people at every stage in the investigation. No one is who they appear to be and with every minute that passes, the danger escalates. It’s Sam’s most complex case yet and the terrifying reality is beyond anything she could have imagined.

What Lies Behind

J.T. Ellison

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For the late great John Seigenthaler (1927–2014)

And, as always, for Randy

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

TUESDAY: MORNING

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

TUESDAY: AFTERNOON

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

TUESDAY: EVENING

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

HE WATCHED. BECAUSE that’s what he did. It’s what he did best.

He used to watch in person, but the gods had conspired against him, and now it was safer for him to watch remotely. Not as satisfying, but it got the job done.

When on the hunt, he lived behind the bank of computers—eating, drinking, barely leaving to shower and sleep. He watched, and bided his time. Patient. Ever patient. Said the spider to the fly.

They were so stupid, really, to think what they said and did online was remotely secure. A private direct message sent from a burner account, a text gone astray, a mistaken link. A few clicks in any direction, a little bit of malware, and he had them. Every private thought, every post, everything they shared. They were only talking to their friends, after all. They thought they were safe.

They didn’t realize he was one of the nameless, faceless, you’ve got the nicest smile, glad you had a fun weekend bots out there, tracking everything they did. Gorging himself on their secrets.

The internet made stalking so much easier. He didn’t even have to leave his house until he was ready. Until the urge was so bright, so intense, he couldn’t stand it anymore. And under the circumstances, the ever-watchful eyes, this was a very good thing.

In the beginning, he’d relied on his own skills—his careful, meticulous planning, watching from afar with binoculars and camera lenses. Developing the film himself so no one would see an overabundance of photos of a single woman in various stages of her life and undress and grief and happiness and think there was something wrong.

Now, a few clicks, and there she would be, in all her glory. Notes to lovers, to BFFs, hearts poured out onto a keyboard. Uploads and downloads and the occasional chic self-porn. A life that was supposed to be private was his to intercept and enjoy at his leisure. And enjoy he did.

There was only one problem. He’d recognized the growing sense of dissatisfaction a few years earlier. Convenience had usurped chance. His special muscles atrophied. The watching took on a mechanical air. Distant, so distant.

The thrill of the hunt was gone. There was no danger anymore. Physical contact was only made when he came to finish the job.

He missed the chase. Ducking behind buildings, wearing disguises, renting cars. The breathless moments—had he been seen?

Smelling the perfumes left on a vanity, the shampoo in the shower, the soap in the dish. Slipping between the smooth sheets. Riffling through drawers, lace and silk gliding against the pads of his fingers. Drinking from the orange juice, touching the lettuce and eggs, leaving bits of himself behind in the sink.

They told him the new world wouldn’t be as fun. That he’d have to be careful. But damn it all, he wanted more.

He wanted them all.

But he couldn’t have them all. Not now. Not with so many people looking.

So he searched. He befriended and dazzled, was a shoulder to cry on.

And he found the perfect one. Another perfect one.

He took a sip from his cooling coffee, adjusted the chair, the screens. Today he would watch her, and tonight, tonight she would be his at last.

The hours passed slowly, so very slowly. The camera caught fragments of her as she moved through her apartment—it was Sunday, a day of rest. She always stayed home on Sundays. Slept in. Had a leisurely breakfast. Read magazines, painted her nails, watched a movie. Mundane things. She was a creature of habit.

Too easy. She’s begging for it. She hasn’t taken a precaution in years. This won’t satisfy you a bit, and you know it.

He ignored the voice, as he had been since he’d picked her. The voice, whatever part of his conscience that still lived, was more of an annoyance than anything else. Sometimes it begged, cajoled. Sometimes it drove, commanded. He’d listened to it well for all his life, but lately, the voice had become less brave. Less artistic. Less everything.

Patterns create boredom. Boredom creates mistakes.

What would you have me do? Walk away?

An annoyed sigh. Yes.

No. Patterns are what makes the world go around. Without them, the world would descend into chaos. We would descend into chaos. I am doing my part to keep the world revolving. So shut. Up. Already.

He edged closer to the screen. Sweat trickled down his back, gathering in the groove above his pants. He shifted, pressed back against the chair. He was still in good shape, considering all the sitting he did now. He worked at it, using his own body weight to keep strong and lithe. Muscles tight, waist thin. Hair—short and chemically blond; jaw—square; teeth—perfectly straight; eyes—the lightest blue. All functioning normally, better than most men his age. The strange gift of symmetry imbued by his DNA that made him beautiful. He crossed between the races; he was a sight to behold.

That’s why his friends called him Beauty.

His beauty was his camouflage. Nothing beautiful could hurt you. Nothing beautiful could betray and deceive or harm. Nothing beautiful could slice and grind and strangle.

Beauty was a deadly weapon. The one no one ever saw coming.

He grinned to himself as he watched her settle in for a Sunday afternoon nap.

Her last nap.

It was time.

And when it was over, he would turn his attentions to a more interesting prey. A challenge. Since he hadn’t had one in so long.

The one who was looking for him. He would take his time. Be cautious and careful. But she would be his. If it was the last thing he did, she would be his.

TUESDAY: MORNING

What lies behind us and what lies before us are

tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

—Emerson

Chapter 1

Georgetown Washington, D.C. Tuesday morning

LAUGHTER.

They’d drunk too much, gotten too loud, too boisterous. Mr. Smith’s kicked them out a few minutes past midnight, and they stumbled into the Georgetown night, dragged themselves up Wisconsin and loped across M Street, tripping and clutching each other to stay upright, cackling hysterically, their heels an incoherent tattoo on the sidewalks. People watched them, their antics greeted with amusement or derision, depending on the mood of the observers.

“I can’t go on, I can’t. Stop, Emma, please, stop.”

Emma, ponytailed, blonde and lanky, fiddled with her tights with one hand, tugged on Cameron’s arm. “I gotta pee. We can’t stop now, Cam, it’s just a few more blocks.”

“My feet hurt. And my head.” Cameron slipped, landed hard against the plate-glass window of Starbucks. “Bump!” That set them off again, the giggles turning into guffaws.

Emma yanked on the door to the darkened store. “Nuts. They’re closed.”

“Why are they closed?” Cameron whined.

“’Cause it’s midnight. The witching hour. And you’re not a witch, you’re just a bitch. Tommy’s place is just ahead. Can you make it there?”

Cameron squeezed her eyes closed, chanting the rhyme under her breath. “Not a witch, just a bitch, not a witch, just a bitch.”

“You really are screwed up, aren’t you? Come on.” Emma dragged her to her feet, off down the darkened street.

Georgetown never truly sleeps. Even when the bars close, there are still people about—joggers, the ubiquitous construction workers, musicians and homeless, dog walkers and students, lovers and mistresses. A stew of incessant liveliness, perfect for the college-aged and the cuckolded. The romantics and the hardened.

They made it a block before Cameron stopped dead. She grabbed Emma’s arm, nails digging into the soft flesh.

“Did you hear that?”

Emma strained, but one block up from M Street and two blocks over, all she heard was the tittering of the night birds and the whooshing of tires on pavement, maybe some faint, masked music. “Hear what?”

Cameron shook her head. “I thought I heard something. Someone shouted. I’m drunk. Where are we?”

Emma glanced at the sign on the corner. The numbers and letters weaved together. She shut one eye and the familiar N floated into range.

“We’re on N Street. One more block up. Come on already.”

They started off again. “How are you going to get in? I thought you two broke up. Didn’t he take back his key?”

“We’re not broken up. Just on a break. There’s a difference. He’s so busy now, with school and working. He just took on another new project. He needed some space. I understand.”

“Oh. I see. You understand why you’re not important to him anymore. Big of you.”

“Bitch.” But there was no heat behind the word.

She heard footsteps. Straightened in time to see a jogger cross the street in front of them, legs pounding out a steady rhythm. Chick could move. Emma wasn’t a runner. She played tennis, quite well, but the idea of running for the sake of running was boring to her. At least on the courts there was a tangible goal.

She realized she was alone, looked over her shoulder. Cameron had stopped again, was leaning woozily on a trash can.

“Come on,” Emma said, her tongue getting stuck on the words. She bit back a giggle and held out her hand. “We’re almost there.”

“Gotta rest.”

“Fooocuuuus, Cameron. Don’t make me leave you behind in the dark, all alone. Whooooo. Big nasty dark gonna eat you alive.”

Cameron flipped Emma the bird and stumbled back to her feet. “Lesgo.”

A car turned the corner, engine purring as it disappeared behind them. Now they were truly alone.

One block, turn right. Twenty steps more, then the basement apartment railing appeared on her left. Emma fished the key out of her bra. She’d known they were going to be drunk tonight. Thought a little booty call would be appropriate, even though she and Tommy had, in essence, broken up. Not because he didn’t dig her; he did, she knew it. It was just school was tough on him.

She knew Tommy would be home studying, late into the night, working on some random epithelial cell or DNA splicing theory, as he always seemed to be. Medical school was hard. Hell, undergrad was hard. Harder than she’d expected. Life was hard, too, especially for a pretty young thing with just enough smarts to make it into Georgetown, but maybe not quite enough to stay there. Her parents would freak if she failed out.

Tomorrow, I’ll stop drinking and partying and really study.

Tomorrow.

But for tonight, everyone needed to blow off some steam, get a little nookie. Sex was good for the brain. Raised the levels of oxytocin, serotonin, melatonin, all those tonins Tommy liked to talk about.

Emma shook her hair free of its ponytail so it would fall in a sultry mass about her shoulders, sloppily freshened her lip gloss, licked her lips and shot Cameron a look. Cam seemed like she was about to pass out. Her eyes were half-shut, the smile on her face dreamy and stupid.

Emma slipped as she went down the five stairs to Tommy’s front door. She grabbed the railing with both arms, clung on, the metal biting cruelly into her rib cage. She managed not to drop the key, but one sky-high platform peep-toe clattered toward the door, hitting it with a thump.

“Whoops,” she said, laughing. Cameron hooted like it was the best trick she’d ever seen.

Emma put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. God, you’re gonna wake the whole street.” She righted herself with dignity, squared her shoulders and put the key in the lock.

“Aren’t you going to knock?” Cameron asked.

“Why?” Emma replied, jiggling the key, then turning the knob. The door swung open into darkness.

“Darn it. He’s asleep,” Emma said, looking back over her shoulder. “Better be quiet, Cam. Can you be quiet?”

“Go in, for Chrissakes. I need a drink.”

Emma took off her other heel and stepped inside, the straps looped on her index finger. It was dark, so dark she couldn’t see anything. She ran her hand along the wall by the door, found the light switch. The lamp in the foyer cast its yellow glow into the hallway. Tommy’s bike was leaning against the wall. Careful not to knock it over, she pulled Cameron inside and shut the door. Made her way down the hall into the living room.

Turned on the light. Saw red, and it took a moment for reality to penetrate her margarita-fogged brain.

Red.

Not red.

Blood.

Blood, everywhere. The sofa, the floor, the wall by the two-seater bar.

Emma stood frozen, unable to move. Cameron was busy getting sick behind her, gagging and choking. Only then did the smell of the blood hit her, meaty and raw, like steaks left too long in the refrigerator, their surface shiny and green.

Want to run, want to hide, want to go away.

Something kept her rooted to the spot. “Tommy?” she called.

There was no answer.

“Stay here,” she told Cameron, an unnecessary direction. Cam was on her hands and knees, moaning, trying and failing to scrabble backward away from the living room and the vomit. She bumped up against the hallway wall and ducked her head into her hands, eyes squeezed tightly shut. She wasn’t going to be of any help.

Careful to avoid stepping in the blood, Emma moved along the edges of the living room. Tommy’s bedroom was down the hall. It was dark. There were no sounds but Cameron’s low keening, which sent shivers down Emma’s spine.

“Please,” she said, uncertain to whom the plea was directed. Please don’t let this be Tommy’s blood. Please don’t let him be hurt. Please don’t let him be dead. Please please please please please.

His door was shut. She steeled herself, took two deep breaths. The smell was worse here, tighter, fresher. Almost alive in its awfulness.

She opened the door, flipped on the light.

Screams.

Over and over and over again.

Screams.

Chapter 2

Georgetown

SIRENS RENT THE night air.

The wailing jolted Dr. Samantha Owens from sleep. She listened for a moment, heard them growing louder. They were close. Too close. Several of them, caterwauling through the night as they came near. Instead of peaking and fading, blue lights suddenly flashed on the opposite wall of her bedroom, rotating frantically. The sirens ended with a squawk, but the lights continued their alternating strobes. Based on the angle of the flashes, they’d stopped on O Street.

Her home in Georgetown was generally quiet and calm in the darkness. A few drunk kids every once in a while, hollering as they wound their way back to campus, but rarely something like this.

Clearly, something terrible had happened.

Sam was used to sirens. Living in the city meant they were a regular, nightly, daily occurrence. Sirens used to be the precursor to her part in the festivities, so she always registered their noise. Sirens used to mean her phone was going to ring, and she’d have to drop everything and rush to a crime scene. But that was another life, in another city. One she tried very hard to put behind her.

Her phone wasn’t going to ring, but habits die hard. She glanced at the clock—one in the morning.

She got up, pulled a brush through her shoulder-length brown hair, slipped a warm cashmere sweater over her thin T-shirt, pulled on black leggings and a pair of leather ankle boots. Grabbed a pashmina and tossed it around her shoulders.

Autumn was in full swing, and the late-September temperatures had dropped precipitously over the past week, making D.C. shiver. The bedroom, too, was cold, empty of Xander and his internal furnace. He was on assignment, a close-protection detail with one of his old Army buddies, Chalk. Trevor Reeves Worthington III on his driver’s license, but Chalk forever to his Army mates, named for his propensity to write everything down.

It had only been three weeks since Xander and Chalk had hung out their shingle, made the business official, and they’d already been in high demand. She was glad to see Xander reengage with the world, though she had to admit, it was a bit of a shame. She liked the idea of him up in the woods with Thor at his side, doing his best Thoreau, leading the occasional fishing party, hiking solitary through the woods. The new gig was intense, all-hours, and took him away too much for her liking. Plus, his main job was to throw himself in front of a bullet should the need arise, and she wasn’t at all comfortable with the thought.

She started down the stairs, whistled for Thor. The German shepherd was waiting for her already, ears pricked. She knelt beside him, buried her face in his fur. He was warm, like his daddy, had been curled in a ball in his sheepskin bed, dreaming doggy dreams. He nuzzled her and licked her on the nose gently, then went to stand by the door, alert and ready.

“Let’s go out the back, baby.”

He hurried to her side, and she fastened his lead. She opened the back door, was rewarded with a gust of chilly air, and the voices that carried from the other side of her privacy fence.

You have stooped to a new level, Owens, trying to eavesdrop on a crime scene.

But she went to the far fence, skirting the eternity pool, Thor stuck to her leg like glue. Put her head against the wood. If she turned slightly sideways, she could see through the double slats.

It was so familiar, the shouts and calls. The first responders were there, the police, too. An ambulance was parked on the corner. As she watched, EMTs scrambled toward it with a stretcher. One was kneeling on the gurney itself, straddling a body of indeterminate sex, performing CPR with single-minded intensity.

The open doors of the ambulance blocked the rest. Moments later, they slammed shut and it left in a hurry, sirens wailing. The fire trucks followed, calm now, big beasts rumbling into the night.

The police stayed.

Definitely not a good sign.

She wondered if her friend Darren Fletcher, the newly minted homicide lieutenant, would show. She didn’t know why she assumed it was a homicide, or an attempted homicide, given that someone had been brought out at a rush. It could be anything. More than likely, at this time of night, it was a simple domestic dispute. Someone was punched, had a bloody nose, a black eye, then things got out of control. She ran through the neighbors she knew on O Street, people she’d waved to when walking Thor, imagining them in various states of fury and undress.

Maybe a heart attack. Or a stroke. Embolism, aneurysm, overdose.

God, you are cheery, aren’t you?

She heard one of the cops say, “Hernandez, while you’re at it, go ahead and call the OCME. We’ll need them.”

And she knew. Something inside her gave a little buzz. Death comes in all forms, from all directions. Expected or by surprise, it was the greatest common denominator, the great equalizer. She felt an affinity with the grimness, couldn’t help that. But she had a choice, now. A choice to walk away from the carnage, from the horror. To face death on her own terms, especially since she’d agreed to work with the FBI on their more esoteric cases. A deal made all the more tantalizing because they wouldn’t be dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night to parade, yawning, to a crime scene, where she’d face death in all its incarnations, as she had for so many years as a medical examiner.

She had a more immediate choice, as well. She could open the gate, walk around the block, stand with the crowd of neighbors who’d come to watch the show. Or she could go back inside and return to bed. She’d be able to get several more hours of sleep if she went inside now.

You’re not the M.E. anymore, Sam. She stepped away from the fence.

Thor took advantage of the nocturnal walk to do his business, then she followed him into the silent house, feeling strangely hollow. As she closed the door behind her and watched Thor scoot back to bed, something made her pull out her cell phone and send Fletcher a text.

What’s up on O Street?

She knew it wasn’t too late for him; he was a night owl, especially now that he was seeing FBI Agent Jordan Blake. He’d be up, one way or another. She sent another, this time to Xander.

Miss you.

She poured herself a finger of Ardbeg, thought about it, brought the bottle with her to the couch. Sat down. Took off her boots.

Waited.

Didn’t know exactly what she was waiting for.

She spared a glance at the file folders on the coffee table in front of her. She’d left them scattered carelessly in frustration before climbing the stairs to bed. Crime scene and autopsy photos spilled out of the manila folders, coupled with her notes and Baldwin’s notes and toxicology reports, all jumbled together on the smoky glass. She’d pulled all the autopsy reports from the files and stacked them neatly on the side table; they were her reading material and were proving to be an even bigger frustration than the case itself. This massive, sprawling, unnamed and unacknowledged case.

There were so many pathologists, coroners, methods, regulations, jurisdictions. No one did a postmortem exactly the same, much less were handling several of the individual cases as if there was a criminal component. She’d begun to feel she was interpreting without a Rosetta stone.

When John Baldwin had talked her into coming on board the FBI as a consultant to the behavioral analysis unit, BAU II, to work with his infamous group of profilers, he’d promised she could pick her cases. True to his word, he’d brought her to Quantico, gotten her set up with passes and emails and paperwork galore, then set her loose in the BAU file room. They had so much work, and so few people to handle it, any help was welcome.

And whether she was trying to prove her worth to her new team, or to herself, she’d chosen the big daddy of them all. A stack of files that were getting dusty, because no one could manage to link them, even though there was a single similarity between each victim—every woman was from the same hometown. New Orleans.

She’d seen the box, labeled Cold Case. Read the previous profiler’s report. There was nothing tying them together. The women had died by various means. Stabbings and stranglings and gunshots, one a cardiac arrest from a drug overdose, even a bridge jumper. Nothing highly unusual, nothing esoteric, nothing sexually motivated or even creepy. On the surface at least.

Baldwin had a feeling about the cases, had spent years compiling the ones he thought fit a pattern, and she’d learned to trust his gut when it came to crime. Despite the sometimes innocuous causes of death, the link to New Orleans shouted “connection” to him. But he couldn’t definitively tie all the cases together, nor could anyone on his staff.

Sam had looked through the files in the storage room, shaking her head. The murders did seem unrelated—they were spread all over the country, with different MOs, different murder weapons, different victimologies of all ages and races and socioeconomic levels. And yet, like Baldwin, she sensed the tenuous thread holding them. All of these women had been murdered by the same person. She could just feel it. There was something here. This was a series. Eight of them at last count, over more than twenty years.

Baldwin had just added what he thought might be number nine to the stack, a young woman named Olivia Rives, who’d been found shot to death in Minneapolis last month.

Nine dead. Multiple jurisdictions. No apparent links outside of a hometown and a profiler’s hunch.

A nightmare.

She shot the Ardbeg, poured another and gathered up the thick stack of papers on the side table. No sense going back to bed just this moment. She’d read a while more, keep filling her brain with the disparate notes of nine different autopsy reports by nine different doctors and coroners.

Maybe this time, something would be different.

Chapter 3

McLean, Virginia

ROBIN SOULEYRET’S PHONE rang at 3:23 a.m. Eyes snapping open, she saw the number on the caller ID. Surprised, she palmed the receiver. “You know better than to call in the middle of the night unless someone is dead. So who died?”

There was silence.

“Amanda? What is it? Are you okay?”

Nothing. Then a click.

That was odd. Robin sat up in the bed, realized she was still naked, glanced at the empty spot beside her. Felt the pillow. It was cold. He’d left. She tamped down the feeling that churned in the pit of her stomach. Annoyance? Relief? Sorrow? She didn’t know, but this was their deal. No strings, and definitely no feelings. They were just filling a need for each other.

With a sigh, she reached down and grabbed the shirt she’d been wearing off the floor, pulled it on and dialed Amanda’s phone back.

It went straight to voice mail. Her sister’s lilting voice filled her ears. “This is Mandy. You know what to do.”

Robin tried to keep the irritation from her tone. Well, most of it, anyway.

“You woke me up, little sister. Care to call me back, tell me what’s up?”

Lying back against the pillows, she stared at the ceiling. Wished Riley hadn’t been in such a hurry to split. She wouldn’t have minded making him breakfast. Just this once.

The room was dark around her, empty, but not lonely, never lonely. She’d chosen this life, known what it would be—all work, and no play. No real lasting relationships, with friends or lovers, no kids, no normality. Just a constant string of challenges, issues to be overcome. She’d realized long ago she was just an ant among other ants in a very strange hill, crawling across the world, bumping into a crumb here and there. Some were even big enough to take back to their queen.

Which made her think about Amanda again. She tried the phone once more, to no avail.

A vague uneasiness flooded her system. Maybe Amanda had dialed her number accidentally. Butt-dialed her. Or decided what she wanted to say wasn’t important enough to wake Robin in the middle of the night.

“Fat chance of that, you little bonehead. Where are you?”

She’d never get back to sleep at this rate. She got up, made a pot of strong Turkish coffee, measured in some sugar so it would be orta s¸ekerli, just sweet enough to add to the flavor, bring out the chocolate notes without overwhelming the richness. She inhaled the fumes as it began to boil, craving the dark, deep taste.

Her Turkish friends would be aghast at her drinking coffee in the middle of the night, but as she liked to point out to them, she was an American, not Turkish, and by God she’d drink it whenever she wanted—in the morning, before her dinner, in the middle of the night. So there.

Cup in hand, she made her way through the cottage to the back porch. The sky was as dark as the coffee, beginning its losing battle with the sun, which was still three hours off. She redialed Amanda’s phone.

Nothing.

Took a sip of the coffee, listened to the night things chirping and crawling in the bushes, imagined the birds and mice having an intimate, elegant cocktail party under the bough of the fir tree. Breaking bread with the enemy. Her specialty.

When she’d finished the coffee, she knew it was time to make the call. She hated to do it, but she had no choice. Mandy was her little sister, headstrong and brave, but prone to getting herself into situations that involved delicate extrications. The girl seemed to live for close calls, and she managed well, considering. She’d only asked for help once, a month ago. Robin had been forced to turn her down, unable to break away from her own messed-up world to help. They hadn’t spoken since, and Robin was missing her impetuous sister.

She dialed the number.

Listened to the greeting.

Punched in an extension.

Waited a moment, then hung up.

A heartbeat later, the phone rang.

She answered, surprised to hear Riley’s voice on the other end. “Robin?”

“What are you doing on the desk? I figured you’d be at home, sound asleep.” Or in my bed, sound asleep. Or wide-awake, an even better scenario.

The unspoken words shimmered around her, golden threads of need and desire. She needed to get a handle on these nascent emotions, and quickly. Riley wasn’t thinking about champagne and roses and candlelight every time he bedded her, she knew that. Of course, Riley didn’t see the glorious colors dancing around his words, either.

“I got called in. There’s been an incident in Georgetown.”

The golden threads dissipated with a pop and something like fear skittered up her back. She didn’t recognize the sensation right away. She hadn’t been afraid in a very long time.

“Anything I can do?” she said, careful to stay neutral.

Riley’s voice cracked a bit. “I’m comin’ over. You sit tight.”

Riley was from Texas, and no matter what, when he was upset, or tired, or drunk, little bits of an accent floated through his teeth, tripping off his tongue in blues and reds, like the flag.

The quivery, uncontrolled feeling coursed through her again. It was fear, she thought—deep, abiding, acrid and horrible. It filled her nostrils and played along the edges of her skin. “Riley. Tell me right now. What’s happened?”

His great gusting sigh scared her even more. Riley was a rock. Nothing rattled him.

She already knew what he was going to say, felt herself sliding out of the chair, to the cold concrete patio, as if being closer to the earth would help cushion the blow.

“It’s Amanda, Robin. She’s been killed.”

The stark word danced around her, sharp needles poking and prodding.

Killed. Killed. Killed.

You knew you should have helped her. Why didn’t you swallow your pride and call?

She’s dead, and it’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

“That’s not possible,” she whispered.

But it was true. She could feel the emptiness in the world. The spot that housed her sister, always tangible and reachable, was gone.

She dropped the phone, didn’t hear Riley say, “I’ll be there in five minutes. You stay put.”

Amanda.

Mandy.

Gone.

Black. Black and gray, swirling, choking, drawing her down, the words covering her like a scratchy blanket, drawing tighter, suffocating.

It is your fault, Robin.

Chapter 4

Georgetown

DARREN FLETCHER PULLED up to the crime scene with the remnants of a hurried to-go cup of coffee in his hand. He parked, drained the cup, grimacing—the coffee had gone cold, and bitter with it—and waited for the caffeine to hit his system so he wouldn’t yawn in front of his team. It didn’t work; he felt a jaw-cracking one coming on. Ducked his head down, let it overtake him. He’d been asleep when the call came.

The yawn made him feel better. More alert. He dropped the coffee cup into the drink holder and got out of the car.

Every crime scene was the same. There were the usual crowds of neighbors clustered together along the sidewalk. Yellow crime scene tape was wound around the stop sign at the corner of O and Wisconsin, effectively blocking traffic from driving down the street. He expected the same was true at the other end of the block. Nodded to himself. They were handling things well.

A patrol officer held the clipboard, standing relaxed against a tree. He straightened when he saw Fletcher.

“Evening, sir. Got us a mess.”

“So I hear. Who’s on it?”

“Detective Hart’s talking to the witnesses right now.” He gestured down the sidewalk, where Fletcher’s old partner and now lead detective stood by a pair of girls, both tearstained and rumpled. “Dude’s girlfriend found them. They’re pretty shook up.”

“I bet. Thanks, Hernandez.”

Fletcher signed in, went down the stairs. He could smell the blood before he saw it. When he stepped through the hall into the main room, with all the crime scene lights burning brightly, the blood seemed chaotic in its motion, streams and spatters of red going everywhere.

He sighed. A long night ahead for his team.

They all knew Fletcher liked to look at things by himself. Two crime scene techs saw him come in and melted away, allowing their boss a clean scene to walk through.

One said in passing, “Watch the blood in the hall. It’s pretty thick as you go into the bedroom.”

Fletcher nodded his thanks and walked through by himself once, placing things. The tech was right. The blood was thick and smeary, almost as if the body had been dragged into the bedroom from the living room.

As he entered the master, he saw a woman’s body leaning against the bed, arms by her sides, a crumpled marionette. Her skin was blue; milky, slitted eyes stared at nothing. Skids of blood stained the carpet, the bed, the walls. Life’s blood, clearly. A six-inch blade lay quietly on the comforter, next to a small, dirty-white plastic tent with a green light inside to designate a significant piece of evidence, and the number seven written on it.

Crime scene markers.

There was another green-lit one on the dresser, perched next to a piece of paper.

He’d been told this was a murder-suicide. Here was the murder.

The suicide was not present for his own party. He’d been transported to George Washington University Hospital, in extreme distress.

The crime scene was messy, unwieldy, complicated. Not the worst he’d ever seen, but bad enough. It would take a week to sort through all the blood. And with two victims, it would cost him a mint. He couldn’t help but see the dollar signs—he had a budget now, new responsibilities. He needed to keep control of things. And DNA testing was expensive. A necessary evil, of course, but pricey all the same.

The note was on the dresser, a page ripped from a notebook, written in a slanting hand, the letters blocked, like an architect’s script, but leaning heavily to the right, as if the building plans attached to it were sliding down a hill.

You made me do this.

He left it there, made his way out of the apartment, up the stairs, breathing deeply of the city air, happy to let its gassy stink clear his sinuses of the reek of death. Spared a quick glance at the tall back windows of the house one street over. Samantha Owens lived there, and he was surprised she wasn’t over here already, marching around, giving orders. Of course, she wasn’t a part of his world, not really, just an interesting bystander who brought him the strangest cases.

He liked the idea of her working for the FBI. She needed the challenge.

The lights in her bedroom were dark. He shook off thoughts of his friend. He needed to attend to his witnesses before they were useless.

Emma and Cameron were their names. Both undergrad students at Georgetown. Both highly intoxicated still, though scared into some semblance of sobriety. Underage, too, of course, which meant trouble for whoever was serving them tonight, but he didn’t spare more than a moment’s thought to that issue. Not his problem.

The taller of the two was standing by the squad car, her arms wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together. He imagined she’d never seen anything like this. It would scar her for life. And the other one—prettier, softer, but...less, somehow, than her friend—was well on her way to being medicated by the EMTs. The horror of violent death took people differently. Some freaked out, some got quiet. Some enjoyed the ruckus, found ways to make it all about them. Others shook, and were never right again.

Hart nodded to him as he approached. He looked as tired as Fletcher felt.

“Hey, boss. This is Emma Johnson. She found the victims. Cameron Saint, her friend. They came to visit Mr. Cattafi this evening and found them.” He gestured back toward the house.

The girl Hart had identified as Emma kept glancing at the house. Her voice was soft, hurting. “Is Tommy going to make it?”

Fletcher could smell the liquor on her breath. She’d been crying; her eyes were red and puffy. “I don’t know, ma’am. Can you run me through your night? Tell me what happened?”

“I just wanted to stop by and see him,” she said.

“They’d broken up,” Cameron added. Emma came to life, anger on her face as she gave her friend a nasty look.

Her friend shrugged. “What? You did. He was there with another woman, anyway. And he tried to kill her. You dodged a bullet, you ask me.”

Emma sighed in disgust, turned to Fletcher with old eyes. “We’re on a break. I still have my key. He’s been really busy lately. School’s been really hard on him.”

“Where does Mr. Cattafi go to school?”

“He’s an M.D./Ph.D. candidate at Georgetown. He’s going to cure cancer. Already has.”

“Mmm-hmm. And you broke up when?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Did you know he was seeing someone new?”

The words were small. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Where were you tonight?”

“Just...all over the place. Barhopping.”

“And people can confirm this?”

“Oh. My. Gawd. You think I had something to do with this? Are you mental?”

“Careful, Miss Johnson,” Hart said.

“My father will be very interested to hear your accusations. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Fletcher stopped himself from laughing. “No, Miss Johnson. I have no idea who you are, nor do I care. Now you can settle down, or we can have this chat in my office. Do you want that?”

“Calm down, Emma. He’s not kidding,” Cameron said.

Emma huffed a bit, then raised her chin. “No. I don’t care to continue this line of questioning without a lawyer present.”

Hart glanced at Fletcher, who nodded. Hart whipped out his cuffs, turned Emma Johnson around and calmly placed them on her wrists, all the while ignoring her squeaks of shock at his rough treatment. “When my father hears this, he’s going to get you fired!”

Cameron groaned and leaned back against the police cruiser. She met Fletcher’s eyes as if to say, Hey, I can’t do anything with her when she’s fired up like this.

“Miss Saint? Would you like to continue this conversation, or would you, too, like a lawyer present?”

“Yes, sir, I would. I mean, no, sir, I’m all good.” Flustered, she continued. “Emma didn’t do this, sir. She’s been with me all night.”

“Shut up, Cameron. We need to get my dad’s lawyers here.”

Cameron drew herself up and gave her friend a baleful glare. “You shut up, Emma. You’re making a fool out of yourself.” And to Fletcher, “We have fake IDs—we were in Mr. Smith’s most of the night. You can check. They booted us and we walked up here. She wanted a booty call. She’s just drunk. She gets stupid when she drinks. Let her go, please. We stumbled into this, and we don’t know anything.”

Her words rang true, and Fletcher nodded. “Did you see anyone in the neighborhood as you were walking here? Anything that stood out? Cars that seemed suspicious, people who were out of place?”

Cameron looked at the ground, then back to him. “Sir, I apologize, but I had a lot to drink tonight. I wasn’t noticing much of anything besides where to put my foot next to make it up the hill, and then tossing my cookies when I saw all that blood. Besides, it’s Georgetown. There’s always a bunch of people around. I didn’t notice anyone who looked wrong, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, either.”

Emma had had a change of heart. “There was a jogger. That’s the only person I saw. But it was a woman. She was coming down the hill.”

“Young, old? Hair color?”

“She had a baseball cap on, and those reflective sneakers. That’s all I remember.”

Fletcher believed her. “All right. Unhook her, Hart.”

Emma looked like she was about to say something, but Cameron shook her head and she stopped. Hart released the cuffs, and Emma rubbed her wrists and muttered, “Thanks.”

Cameron grabbed her friend’s hand. “Can we go now?”

Fletcher did his best disappointed-dad routine. “You two behaved incredibly irresponsibly tonight. You could have been killed. I hope you realize that. Now, give me the fake IDs.”

“Yes, sir,” they chimed in unison.

They dug in their bags and came up with the bits of plastic. He pocketed them. “Detective Hart will make sure you get home all right. I’ll most likely want to talk to you again, when you’ve had a chance to sober up, and clean up. Give him all your information. And, girls? I hear about you doing anything out of step again, I won’t be Mr. Nice Guy. You hear me?”

They nodded, and Fletcher jerked his head toward the car. “Get them home,” he said to Hart, then walked back to his own car.

What a mess. What a huge mess.

His phone was sitting on the console. There was a text from Sam—sure enough, she had noticed the hubbub. He was tempted to go knock on her door, let her make him a decent cup of coffee. Her boyfriend, Xander, was addicted. They always had some sort of delicious brew on hand. But the text was over an hour old. She may have gone to bed when she didn’t hear back from him.

He sent her a quick note back, then got started with the paperwork.

There’d be no sleep for him tonight.

Chapter 5

BIRDS. ALL SHE could hear was birds.

Chirping, singing, flitting against the glass feeder. Sweet little songbirds going mad outside the window.

Sam cracked open her right eye, then the left, pulled herself upright with a little groan. Touched her forehead, saw the remnants of the Scotch in the glass on the coffee table. Papers fell to the floor in a cascade, a gentle susurration off her chest.

She’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for something... She couldn’t remember.

Thor saw her stirring. His head shot up, and she could swear the dog smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get your breakfast in a minute.”

He woofed softly, set his muzzle on his paws.

She picked up the papers, stacked them carefully. Remembered to put Sausalito on top. She wanted to revisit that scene. A houseboat in the northern part of the city, abandoned and neglected. It stood out among the brighter, shinier, newly constructed and renovated, not only because of its dilapidation, but because its owner visited only once a year, in the summer, and when a body had been found in the salon, the owner hadn’t come to see to things.

Something there.

The sirens. O Street. She remembered now. Flipped on the television, knowing well enough that if it were as bad as she suspected, the local news would be all over it.

They were talking about the weather. Sunny and chilly all week, some rain here and there, then a series of perfect D.C. fall days ahead.

She grabbed her phone. Fletcher had texted her back, sometime around three in the morning. She hadn’t heard the ding.

Bad one. Double stabbing. One deceased, one in ICU. Sirens wake you up?

Then a second text, ten minutes later.

Apparently not.

She smiled, his sarcasm evident, started to write him back, then jumped as the phone began chirping in her hand. Xander. She answered with a smile. She really did miss him.

“Hi, babe.”

“You were up late.” His voice was deep, still rough with sleep, and she felt like he’d wrapped her in his arms from afar.

“Something happened on O Street, late. Double stabbing. Cops everywhere. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Are you okay? Was it someone we know?”

“I don’t think so. I’m fine, just tired.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I was on all night.” He yawned. “Vigilance never sleeps.”

“You haven’t gotten any sleep? You need rest, Xander.”

“I know. I’ll grab a few winks in a minute. I wanted to talk to you first.”

A shimmer of absurd pleasure shot through her. Even exhausted, he wanted her.

“Is the job going well? Nothing dangerous happening?”

“It is. All’s well. We’ll be wrapped shortly, and I can come home as soon as we put these guys on a plane back to London. I have good news, though. We already have a gig for next week.”

She couldn’t help the frown, pushed it away. This was a good thing. She didn’t have the right to hold him back just because she enjoyed having him around at all hours.

“Good. I’m glad.” She couldn’t help herself. “Hopefully the job is local?”

He started to laugh. “Why, Dr. Owens. Do you miss me?”

“Oh, hush. Thor is going nuts without you here.”

“Uh-huh. I hear you. Give him a scratch for me. Clients’ flight leaves at 0930, then I’m headed your way. I’ll be in by let me see, 1300 hours. Maybe we can walk down to Clyde’s. I’m dying for a decent burger. These guys ate sushi all week.”

“That sounds great. Can’t wait. Fly safe.”

“Have a nice day off. Love you.” And he was gone before she had a chance to say it back.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, and set the phone on the table. She fingered the simple diamond band he’d given her a few weeks earlier, opening the door to a more permanent future together.

She wasn’t in a rush. They were together in all the ways that mattered. There was no real reason to make it legal. She wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he.

She hopped up from the couch, washed her hands thoroughly, ignoring the little voice counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi in the back of her head, then called Fletcher.

He answered on the first ring, quite jovial considering the time. “Heya, sleeping beauty. What happened, the battery die on your phone again?”

“Again? It was just the one time. I fell asleep, waiting for you to get back to me. What in the world happened last night?”

“Stabbing. Probably domestic. One dead, one gravely injured. Couple of students found them. I’m waiting for a briefing on it in ten minutes. Want to meet me after for breakfast?”

“Yeah, I can do that. I don’t have classes today.” But he’d know that. Fletcher always seemed to have radar for her schedule. “Besides, I’m banging my head against the wall on a case. I could use the fresh air, maybe a fresh perspective.”

“Meet me at Le Pain, then, in thirty minutes.”

* * *

The short walk to Le Pain Quotidien was refreshing, just as she’d hoped. She was glad Fletcher had invited her to join him—with all the new work she was doing, the craziness of the past few months, she hadn’t made many friends in D.C. yet. It was nice to get asked out on a breakfast date.

She got a table by the windows, and true to his word, twenty minutes later, Fletcher walked through the doors. Dressed in his usual gray suit and white shirt, unshaven and dark hair mussed, he looked more like he’d rolled out of bed instead of walking out of his office. He was frowning, scanning the restaurant in true cop form, before he joined her. She’d given him the chair that faced the door.

He gave her a quick hug and sat down, signaling to the waiter for a cup of coffee.

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence this morning?” she asked.

“I have a meeting down the street at ten. I’m telling you, being the LT isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I spend more time in meetings than at crime scenes. It’s becoming oppressive.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I’m amazed anything gets done in the world, considering how many meetings we have. I had a faculty meeting last week that’s sole purpose was to schedule another faculty meeting.”

The waiter came, and they ordered—croissants for her, a ham and Gruyère tartine for him—and when he moved away, Fletcher leaned forward and spoke quietly. “You wanna go to a crime scene with me?”

Sam had just picked up her coffee cup. It stopped midair. She clapped her right hand to her heart. “Oh, Fletcher. You say the sweetest things.”

“Stow it, Owens. Is that a yes?”

“Of course it is. Right now?”

“We’ll eat first. Then we’ll go. Unless you’ve gotten squeamish in your old age and can’t handle a nasty scene on a full stomach.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can handle anything.”

“Good.”

“Out of curiosity, what is it exactly you’d like me to see?”

“All sorts of things. Tell me, have you ever heard of a kid at Georgetown Med named Thomas Cattafi?”

“Is that who was attacked? No, I haven’t heard the name. He’s not in any of my classes.”

“He’s a fourth year.”

“That explains it.”

“It’s his apartment where the attack took place. It’s probably in my head, but something about it all doesn’t feel right. I spoke at length to his ex-girlfriend in the wee hours of the morning, and again just a bit ago. She and her BFF got hammered and dropped by for a booty call—she still had a key. Walked in, saw blood everywhere, called 9-1-1. BFF confirms every inch of the story.”

“You think she did it, and the BFF is lying to cover for her?”

“I rousted the bartender at Mr. Smith’s. He corroborates their story. He’d been serving them since seven or so. The two were cut off around midnight, sent drunk as skunks out into the dark. They’re lucky they didn’t get hurt. No, I think she’s telling the truth. Though she was a pain in my ass last night.” He mimicked the girl’s high-pitched voice, and stamped his foot under the table. “‘Don’t you know who I am?’”

“Who was she?”

“Ah, hell, her dad’s some big-shot here in town. Works for the attorney general. He was mighty pissed when he heard his precious underage princess was not only caught drunk at her ex’s house but had just been let out of cuffs after mouthing off to me. Can you still ground a kid when they’re nineteen?”

Sam laughed a bit. “Yeah, if they rely on your money to live.” She could just imagine it. Then, seeing Fletcher was still distracted, she asked, “So what’s not right about it? The crime scene, I mean, not the overindulged debutantes.”

He fiddled with his coffee cup. “Weren’t you an overindulged debutante?”

“And now you know why I recognized her for what she was.”

They laughed, then he grew serious. “You ever get that sixth sense that what you’re seeing isn’t the real story?”

“Sure. All the time. It’s part of what I do—did—trying to see past the obvious to find out the truth.”

“So the ex—her name’s Emma, by the way—said Tommy was having some trouble at school. I asked her, was he overloaded, too much work, that kind of stuff? And she says no, it was something else. Something serious. He wouldn’t talk about it, broke up with her, pushed her out of his life.”

“Sounds like a typical fourth year to me. Too much work, not enough time for actual living.”

He shook his head briefly. “You’re probably right. But then he and his new lover end up with knife wounds. She’s dead, he still might die. There’s a case to be made for murder-suicide, but...it doesn’t feel as random as it might otherwise, I guess. Tell me, what do you know about curing cancer?”

Chapter 6

McLean, Virginia

ROBIN WAS STILL. She hadn’t moved since the wee hours, since the phone call and coffee and news and seething spiral of black oppressive knowledge had shut her down.

Riley sat next to her, not touching, whistling something under his breath. Rachmaninoff, she thought, or wait, no, it was one of the songs from the movie soundtrack of Braveheart.

Maybe she’d been asleep, drifted off, maybe she’d been sunk into meditation. She realized she was hearing him, the soft sibilance of his lips, so close, but never farther away, and shook herself slightly. The sun had come up. The sky to her west was hazy, the color of weak tea. The rustlings of the night creatures was long past. It would rain today.

Real. It was real. Amanda was dead.

A searing pain filled her chest. Red, she was red, everywhere. It rushed over her body, biting, stinging. She reached out to touch it, surprised when her finger touched skin, and the red absorbed into her, disappeared.

Not now, Robbie. You can’t go down that hole again.

Riley had told her everything when he arrived, about the boy who’d killed her sister, that she’d been taken to the D.C. morgue, that there would be an autopsy. That the boy who killed her had tried to kill himself, too, but was still alive.

Her legs were asleep. She’d stacked them beneath her before she’d gone into her empty place, the place she went to cope with anything overwhelming or hurtful, or when the synesthesia got to be too much. The empty place had gotten her through Afghani jails and snakebites and gunshots and torture. Had gotten her through her father’s death. It was a wellspring of nothingness, a virtual blank spot in her psyche filled with nothing but soft, calming white noise. She entered it when the pain was too great, and emerged when her subconscious recognized she could deal with things again.

It was a valuable tool. One she hadn’t thought she’d need ever again.

Swallowing, she realized the cup of coffee was still in her hand. The dregs were cold but she was parched. She let the chewy thickness linger in her mouth, realized she would never again drink the brew without thinking of her sister, a gash in her neck, dead in Georgetown.

Red, red, red.

Stop.

She shut her eyes briefly, and the moment passed. It had taken her years to learn how to control her curse, her gift, her otherness. Now it came to her gently, when she allowed it, pastels and soft things, but fear or horror killed her ability to control it. And she needed to be in control right now.

Amanda was supposed to die very, very old, or in the field somewhere, a hero’s death, not at the wrong end of a knife less than five miles from her sister’s loving arms.

Why hadn’t she said she was coming to the States? Why hadn’t she called? Robin would have protected her, done anything for her. Even if there was animosity between them, they were all that was left.

Amanda had called. A month prior. And you were too far up your own miserable ass to help. This is your fault.

There would be no tears, but her throat thickened, and she swallowed hard, again and again, until she realized the bile was rising; there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She jumped up and vomited over the railing.

Riley jumped up, too, one hand on her back, the other entangled in her long blond hair, pulling it back. He made shushing noises as if she were a child who’d had a bad dream. And she let him comfort her, using the only language either of them knew anymore—the dirty grayness of grief that helped with the shock of losing someone you love too soon.

When her stomach had finally settled, she sat back on the chair and met his eyes. They were pretty eyes. An odd shade of blue, dark and deep as the ocean, they were his best feature. The rest had been handsome, once, before. Before a knife to the forehead and ten years on the ground in too many countries to count wore even that out of him, and left him weary, battle torn and hungry for things she could barely give him. He was like a piece of granite, carved from the earth, silent and deadly.

“You’re back,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but the interrogatory was evident. She’d scared him, collapsing in on herself like that, only to emerge choking and flailing over the rail.

“Yes. Do they know why?” she asked, surprised at how rusty she sounded, like a pipe left years in the rain.

He shook his head. “It’s too early. If the boy wakes up, the police will certainly question him. But he’s barely hanging on.”

“She called me. At 3:23 this morning. She didn’t say a word.”

Riley frowned. “Not possible. She was already gone.”

Robin picked up her cell phone. Showed him the incoming call.

“Someone has her phone,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. It was probably one of the cops, checking her contacts for someone to notify.”

“And when they found your name, and you answered, they decided not to tell you?”

“Maybe I’m not listed as her next of kin.”

He touched her arm. “Robin. You are. You know you are.”

“It was a murder-suicide, you said.”

“There was a note. You’re sure you’ve never heard of Thomas Cattafi?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t. And a note, that’s not enough to go on. It doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone else with them. Someone that killed her, and tried to kill him.”

“What was she working on again?”

At that, Robin sucked in her breath and looked away. “You know I don’t know. We hadn’t been in touch for a while. She called me a month back, said she’d gotten into some trouble, wanted me to come bail her out. I was up to my ass in alligators with the failed meet in Kirkuk. There was no stopping to help her. So I said no. Told her she needed to learn how to deal with these things herself. That’s the last time we talked.” Hazy green clouds surrounded her head. The letters N and O rotated slowly, turning white in the mist.

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

She sniffed once, hard, then snapped to, waving her hands to dissipate the cloud. It went away dutifully, and when she opened her eyes again, she saw nothing but the backyard she loved, with the feeders and flowers grown out of control, the water, roaring past. Her very own jungle. Control.

“Riley, we need to investigate. Get Alicia to run the call logs into my phone. I don’t care what sort of excuse she needs to make, who she needs to promise what, just find out where my sister’s phone was when she...when it was used to call me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’ll need clearance—”

“Riley Dixon, when is the last time you asked for clearance to run a phone call?”

His jaw flexed, the muscle in his cheek jumping. She’d hit a nerve. Good. But she softened her voice the tiniest bit.

“I don’t know what Amanda was up to. But I will find out what happened to her. Are you going to help me or not?”

“I’ll help you, Robbie. But I can’t promise you’re going to like where this leads. What if she’s involved in something bad? What if you find out there’s some sort of attack coming, and she’s a part of it?”

She nodded, and stood, arms tight around her waist.

“Riley, she’s not. She’d never be involved in anything to hurt us.”

“Have you seen today’s bulletin? On the threat to the nation’s natural aquifers? What if someone hit our water supply here in D.C.? Just strolled right up to the plant on Roosevelt and popped something in the water.”

“Wouldn’t happen, Riley. There are fail-safes to make sure nothing biological can get through.”

“You don’t know that. Read the bulletin. It’s scary stuff. There are too many threats to count. Amanda could have stumbled across the wrong person and they tried to recruit her into doing their dirty work.”

“Then I absolutely need to find out what she was involved in.”

He ran a hand through his brown hair, the bicep flexing. Hard. He’d always been so hard, all sinew and bone and flesh, muscles tightly coiled, a big cat, ready to pounce or leap away at a moment’s notice.

“I’m going to have to call in a favor or two.”

“Thank you, Riley.”

He gave her a brief hug, cold lips pressed to her forehead, and left, stalking out through the living room, his heels banging on the hardwood. That man could walk silently across a field of broken glass; she knew he meant it to make a point. He was doing this against his will.

Well, so was she.

Riley would work things from his end, seeking out who had called using Mandy’s phone. There was one phone call she needed to make. If there was anyone who might know what Mandy was involved in, Atlantic would be the one.

She put in word that she needed to talk to him, then sat back and waited.

And waited. And waited.

Chapter 7

Georgetown

CANCER? SAM FELT the quick flash of alarm, tried to keep herself in check. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Oh, no, this isn’t about me. Emma said Cattafi was involved in cancer research. He’s doing some sort of specialized microbiology internship that has been making waves. Cellular differentiation or something like that. Stem cells, cancer vaccines, all sort of really cutting-edge stuff.”

“What’s a fourth year doing in research? That’s usually postdoctoral work.”

“Kid’s a prodigy, from what I’ve heard. Juggling internships. Someone said he was in the M.D./Ph.D. program. So he’s at GW in a coma. There was a woman with him—her name was Amanda Souleyret. She didn’t make it.”

He was messing with his spoon, putting it in his cup, taking it out. The fidgeting was uncharacteristic. Clearly, something had him rattled.

“And?”

“And...” The spoon went back in the coffee cup with a clatter. “On the surface, it looks like a domestic. He stabbed her, stabbed himself. He had the knife in his hand. The spatter patterns are consistent with an attack. It’s cut-and-dried. Only thing that saved his life is his ex-girlfriend getting drunk and deciding she wanted a reconciliatory booty call and stumbling right into the scene. If she hadn’t shown up when she did... It was a near thing. EMTs managed to get a heartbeat. He’s not doing well. His family is flying in. Probably brain-dead—they may be looking at organ donation.”

Sam had a vivid flash from the night before, the EMT working frantically, giving CPR. “That’s terrible. But...?”

He looked at her finally, really looked, met her eyes and smiled. “You know me too well, don’t you?”

The food came, and they waited for the waiter to clear off before they continued the conversation. Sam ripped off a chunk of croissant, lavishly buttered it. “I know when you’re building up to something. So spit it out.”

“The ID on the woman had a red flag. This is between us, right?”

She crossed her heart, waved the flaky pastry at him. “You, me and my croissant.”

“She’s blacked out in the system.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t do my job, because someone doesn’t want me to know who she really is, and what she really does.”

“Oh. That is rather odd. What do you think, she’s some sort of agent? A spy? We are in D.C., after all.”

He looked serious all of a sudden, put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. “That would be my guess. I don’t know what agency she’s from, whose side she’s on. What I do know is ten minutes after I got to work this morning, I was told that there’d been a meeting scheduled at State, and my presence was requested. Either I’m about to be relieved of this case, or they’re going to send me on a wild-goose chase.”

“Fun times, my friend. You always catch the coolest cases.”

“Which is why I was thinking, maybe if you have a look-see, I’ll have a better sense of what’s happening. I don’t know what a spy would be doing having a fight with a kid in med school. It’s probably just domestic, like I said, but...”

“No worries, Fletch. I’m happy to help, as always.”

Her cell phone rang. She apologized, pulled it out of her pocket. Glanced at the screen, saw the call was coming from Quantico. John Baldwin. In a way, he was her new boss.

“Fletch, forgive me, I have to answer this.”

He held up a hand. “No worries. Go ahead.”

She stood and walked outside, determined not to disturb everyone around her with the call.

“Baldwin?”

His deep voice sounded stressed. “Sam, good morning. I hope you’re doing well.”

“I am. Out of the house and everything, having breakfast with Fletcher. What’s up?”

“Ah, that’s good. I’m glad you’re already with him. Has he told you about the murder near your house last night?”

She grew wary. “He has. Plus I saw parts of it—the sirens woke me. Why?”

“The female victim, Amanda Souleyret? She was one of ours.”

“She was FBI?”

“Yes. A longtime undercover agent, working...well, what she specialized in is most likely irrelevant, considering. I was told this looks like a domestic situation.”

“That’s what Fletcher said.”

“Such a shame. No one even knew Amanda was in the US much less that she was dating someone here. I don’t know how she found the time. She works primarily overseas, as an investigator for a French company called Helix International. Have you ever heard of it?”

Now Sam really was on alert. “As it happens, I have. They’re in the same business as Xander, albeit on a much larger scale. They do everything from close protection to industrial investigations.”

“That’s right. Amanda is—she was—a very talented agent, capable of handling most anything thrown her way. She’s been on an undercover op that’s stretched for over a year. Anyway, there’s a briefing scheduled at ten at the State Department. Fletcher’s already on the guest list. They wanted me there, but I’m flying out to Denver in an hour. Just between you and me, we might have another Hometown murder.”

“You’re kidding. That’s two this month alone. He’s accelerating.”

“Yes, he is. I have to get out to Denver and see what’s happening. Can you go to State in my stead? See what they have to say, take notes. Call me after, fill me in?”

“Of course,” she said coolly, but her mind was going a thousand miles an hour. Why her? Why not pull someone from the Hoover Building to go, someone on Baldwin’s direct staff? What did she have to offer this investigation? Especially if it had been bumped to this level, which felt awfully strange for a domestic case. Why would the State Department want to stick their oar into a lovers’ spat gone horribly wrong?

She kept her mouth shut, though. When she’d agreed to come on board Baldwin’s team, he’d been very clear that sometimes she’d be getting her hands dirty in all facets of his investigative life. It’s why he wanted her in particular, someone he could trust, someone who understood the way things worked, but was an outsider.

“Great,” Baldwin said. “I’ve already called in your DOB and social, just be sure you have your driver’s license on you. They’re on alert today, as you can imagine. I’ll call you when I land in Denver and you can brief me.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you then.”

She hung up, hugged her arms around her body. A kid on a skateboard zoomed past her, calling out to a friend behind him, the small transparent wheels clattering on the sidewalk, the answering shouts. Cars whizzed by, people walked the streets with smiles on their faces.

Carefree. Careless. Too young to realize how precarious life truly is, too involved in their own moment to imagine what could happen.

She went back inside. Fletcher had finished his sandwich, and her croissant, too.

“Sorry, I was starving,” he said. “I already ordered you a new one.”

“We better get it to go.”

A shadow crossed his face. “Gotta go to work?”

“Actually, we have to go to work. I just got called in on your murder. You better take me to that crime scene pronto.”

Chapter 8

Teterboro Airport New Jersey

XANDER WHITFIELD SLOUCHED in the chair at the gate, shades firmly in place. While he looked like a sleeping tourist trying to catch an uncomfortable nap before his flight, he was on high alert.

He watched his partner, Chalk, move through the room near the principal, waiting for the nod telling him it was time to move. They had a loose box around their principal—a wealthy British industrialist named James Denon, who didn’t want it known he had a protection detail on him while he visited his interests in the States—and his people. Their job had been to blend into the crowd everywhere the team went.

So far, they’d done well. Not great—they’d had one small mishap when Chalk turned the wrong way for a moment and the principal had gotten too far ahead of them—but good. Xander wasn’t entirely thrilled with this lurking-from-afar crap, but sometimes the principal got to make the call. Once the doors to the plane closed, he and Chalk would be done and on their way, thousands of dollars richer and with a glowing recommendation to boot. Just what they needed to get their new company off the ground.

This part of the operation was the trickiest. Whipping out their weapons at an airport was a surefire way to get noticed. If a bogey were to make a move now, they would have to counter it with subtle, quick and meaningful brute force.

Xander was fine with that. It had been ages since he’d been in an honest-to-God fight. He wouldn’t mind sinking his fists into a bad guy’s face.

It wouldn’t happen today. The job had been simple, straightforward. James Denon was well-liked by his people, his company and his country. There had been no signs of trouble all week. The people who hated him were half a world away, and the trip had been on close hold, so they had no idea he was in the States.

They’d timed their arrival well. The wait was short; after only fifteen minutes, their principal’s flight was ready. This was the beauty of Teterboro, New Jersey’s private airport. The crowds were smaller, the people waiting for private flights and charters. The usual program—parking, security, long wait times at the gates—wasn’t at all the same.

Good for the principal, but more difficult for Xander to fit in. They’d been lucky today; there was a group of private high schoolers being ferried to Canada, and they were creating quite a bit of distraction. Enough for Xander to find a spot along the periphery and look like one of their chaperones, exhausted already by their energy.

Behind the mirrored lenses, he watched the small crowd. Their principal began making his way toward the doors. Xander gave Chalk the nod, stood, stretched. Moved toward the double glass doors to the tarmac, gave things a look-see. All clear. He spoke quietly into his hand mike. “We’re a go. Plane’s here.”

Chalk, standing four feet away, touched the principal on the shoulder, gestured unobtrusively toward the door. Xander kept watch while the principal and his people dutifully paraded out the door, across the tarmac and into the plane.

Five minutes later, it was done. The flight attendant had closed the door, and the plane pulled away, engines purring.

“A final all clear,” Xander said, and felt the tension of the past few days leak away.

Chalk strolled toward the exit, and Xander followed, cautious to watch their backs. No reason to get made just because the operation was over.

They met up in the parking lot. They had rented two cars. They’d take them back to JFK, drop them and the job would officially be over.

“That went well,” Chalk said.

“It did. And now he’ll tell all his friends. Let’s get to JFK. I want to go home.”

Chalk’s phone rang. He answered with his usual, “Hoo-rah.” A moment later his face turned white.

Xander instinctively put his hand on his weapon at his belt, a sweet little SIG Sauer he preferred for close-up work.

“What is it? What happened?”

Chalk didn’t answer, just made a helicopter with his finger and about-faced smartly, back toward the private terminal. Xander stepped next to him. A moment later, Chalk hung up.

“That was Denon. They’re turning the plane around, some sort of mechanical problem. Looks like you and I aren’t done just yet.”

They were at the entrance now, and there was a lot of activity inside. Xander saw four airport employees running toward the back doors. The private schoolers were gathered together at the southern end of the room, pushing toward the windows, staring, one of their chaperones waving her hands to get them to stay put.

Xander ignored everyone around him but Chalk, tuned them out, lasered his focus. “What’s the issue, did he say?”

“No. He’s justifiably concerned.”

“Think it’s directed at him?”

“I don’t know, but we better be ready for anything when that plane lands.”

“If it is, they knew we were on him. They waited until we left to make a move.”

“That’s pretty fucking sophisticated. I haven’t seen a tail, or anything to indicate we were being observed.”

Xander nodded. “Me, either. Could his itinerary have leaked? He’s a good target, we both know that. The threat assessment showed plenty of people who want him dead.”

“If so, someone inside his senior staff or the folks he met with did it. No one else knows he’s here.”

They jogged through the doors, went straight to the back and out onto the tarmac. With the hullabaloo, no one thought to stop them. So much for being inconspicuous, though.

“Sam is going to skin me alive if I don’t get home tonight.”

Chalk shot him a grin. “Cheer up, lover boy. If our principal goes splat, you can get right on the next plane south.”

“If our principal goes splat, we’re done for. You take the terminal, I’ll meet the plane. Cover my six.”

He would be totally exposed, but there was no help for it. Chalk disappeared into the shadows behind him, and Xander stood with the other employees, his arms crossed, staring toward the empty tarmac. He listened hard to the charter employees. Apparently, the engine lights had flashed red, and the pilot wasn’t about to try a transatlantic flight with possible trouble. It could be a simple mechanical issue.

Xander had a feeling that wasn’t the case. Just a small frisson of something, up the back of his neck. He scanned the area. Murmured, “All clear,” into his mike.

A few moments later, the Gulfstream came into view.

Xander stepped to the side, out of earshot, and phoned James Denon, who answered sounding rather panicky. “What’s happening? They won’t tell us what’s happening.”

“We’re here, sir, we’re waiting on you. There’s nothing apparent on the ground. Are you all right?”

“I am. What in bloody hell is going on?”

“They’re saying it was an engine problem. Chances are, that’s all this is. You just sit tight once they land. If they force you to disembark, make sure you come out last. I’ll be waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. We can follow the same protocol as before, staying out of sight, but right now, I think we should stick close.”

“I agree. Something feels off.”

“Roger that, sir. You hang tight inside as long as they’ll let you.”

Xander hung up and casually turned, scoping the building behind him. He still had his shades on, eyes roving right, then left. He couldn’t see Chalk, which was good. His adrenaline was surging, running hard through his body, so hard his hands were fighting the urge to shake. Breathe, Xander. Breathe.

The Gulfstream touched down, a small puff of white smoke rising from its tires. It headed toward the terminal, then suddenly altered course and began taxiing toward the southern hangar instead of the terminal. A radio crackled on the hip of the employee standing nearest him.

“This is Gulfstream 890. Got another warning light, we’re leaking oil. Gonna head directly into the hangar. We’ll disembark the passengers before we go in. Better find another plane, looks like we’re going to be out of commission for a while.”

There were sharp curses from the assembled crowd, but Xander ignored them.

The hangar.

A hundred yards away.

Xander had eyes on it, but he wasn’t close enough to scope it properly. He scanned the building rapidly, looking for anything out of place. There was something, near the roof, twenty degrees to the right. A shadow. As he watched, the shadow pulled back slightly, and there was a flash. A mirrored flash.

His adrenaline shot into overdrive, and he clicked on his comms unit.

“Chalk, buddy, we got a shooter on top of the hangar.”

“Roger. Can you take him?”

“I need to get closer, and higher. If I start heading his way, he’ll know I saw him. You’re gonna have to end around, let me get into position.”

“There’s a metal ladder behind me, runs up the side of the terminal building. The two buildings are about the same height. Should be the right angle.”

“This might draw some attention to our client.”

“Better attention than dead. I’ll cover Denon, you take the shooter. Out.”

Xander heard the whine of the engines. He was out of time. He broke with the employees and quick-walked to the edge of the terminal. Went up the ladder, wishing like hell he had his M4. He’d have a better chance of taking the guy out that way.

His mind was preternaturally calm, clear, crisply assessing everything. Wind speed, atmosphere, angle. The lack of a load in the SIG, the best place to take the shot. Up on the roof now, and of course there was very little to hide behind.

He’d lost eyes on his target, but he scooted to the north edge of the roof, and found him again. The assassin was low now, crouched against the concrete buttress. Relaxed, but ready, a M2010 ESR trained on the crowd below. Xander recognized a professional at work, and his heart sank.

Xander clicked his mike. “I’m in position. Son of a bitch has an M2010.”

Chalk whistled. “Can you take him out?”

Xander took off his sunglasses. Laid on his stomach, inched to the edge. The terminal’s high roof was a boon; he had a down angle on the shooter.

“Xander? Talk to me, buddy. What’s happening up there?”

“Shh. I’m concentrating.”

Chalk’s voice raised slightly. “Concentrate faster, the plane door’s opening.”

God, he would kill for a set of binoculars, or even a range finder. He made the distance between the two buildings, from the end of his muzzle to the shooter’s head, at just under a hundred yards.

Doable.

Xander shut his eyes, then opened and refocused. Modulated his breathing. Rolled onto his knees. Braced, got his grip perfect. Ignored Chalk in his ear saying, “Tick tock, buddy, time’s running out. They’re making them all disembark. I’ve counted three, that’s the staff. Denon’s going to be out next.”

He watched the shooter on the roof swivel his rifle down, finger in the trigger. It was time.

Xander braced his arms. Felt a wind gust, made a small adjustment. Swallowed, and squeezed.

The gun moved smoothly in his hands, and the shooter on the opposite roof collapsed, his rifle catapulting over the concrete buttress to the tarmac below.

“Threat eliminated.”

Chapter 9

Georgetown O Street Tommy Cattafi’s apartment

SAM ADMIRED THE building that housed Cattafi’s apartment. His place was in the basement of a beautiful three-story redbrick town house. An overgrown Norway maple was planted in front of the house, its broad leaves just beginning to show a tinge of yellow. In a few weeks, Georgetown would be a riot of colors, putting on a show, but for now, it was still green, only a bit less vibrant and deflated than even a week before.

Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A patrol officer sat in his vehicle, unseeing, staring into his lap. The scene hadn’t been fully released yet. It would be another day or two at least before that happened and the cleanup could begin. The reparation of lives torn asunder by those left behind. As if by cleaning away the blood and gore, a life could be set to rights again.

Sam thought about the kid in the hospital, and his family flying to see him, to make life and death decisions on his behalf, and a familiar sense of hopelessness filled her. Senseless violence always did.

The cop still hadn’t noticed them standing five feet from his vehicle. Fletcher arched an eyebrow at her and put a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders, put on his best glower and marched up to the patrol car.

When the young patrol saw Fletcher, he jumped out of the car, fumbling his phone into his pocket, and practically saluted. Sam bit back a laugh—Fletcher’s new position was a source of great pride for him, and if terrorizing the junior officers made him happy, so be it.

The young officer stammered a greeting. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know you were coming by.”

“Officer Beggs. Are we finding the crime scene less than scintillating this morning?”

“No, sir. Not at all, sir.”

“Hmm. This is Dr. Samantha Owens. We’ll only be a minute. You have the sign-in sheet?”

“Yes, sir.” Beggs reached into the patrol car and came out with the clipboard. Fletcher signed himself and Sam into the crime scene. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been ready for your arrival.”

“Yes, you should have. What if Chief Armstrong had walked up to you playing with your dick in the front seat of your car?”

The patrol’s face turned beet red. “Sir, I was texting my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be home for a while. I wasn’t—”

Fletcher started to laugh. “Relax, kid. I’m playing with you. You’re fine. Go back to whatever it was you were doing.” And to Sam, “Come on.”

She gave the kid her best apologetic yes, he’s an idiot smile and followed Fletcher to the steps that led down to Cattafi’s apartment.

Sam shook her head. “Why must you torture the youngsters?”

“Oh, that was nothing. You should have seen the hazing we got when I was coming up. These kids are so protected, the worst we can do is hassle ’em a little. We can’t get mean with them.”

“Still, Fletch. You’re a leader now.”

“Yeah, that’s me. The leader. Leaderman!” He put his hands on his hips and braced his legs apart, turned his head to the side in his best superhero pose. “I should have a giant L on my shirt.”

“And a cape. Don’t forget the cape.”

“Lieutenant Leaderman. I like it.”

“I don’t know, Leaderman. You’d probably have to wear lederhosen or something, just to go with the theme.”

“Screw that, Owens. I’m wearing tights and a cape, or I’m not gonna play.”

“You are five. You know that, don’t you?”

He smirked at her. “You have no idea.”

The banter felt good, right. But it was time to be serious now. Sam snapped on nitrile gloves and followed Fletcher down the stairs.

Fletcher turned off the goofball, turned on the cop. “You know some of the story, but I’d like you to give me your impressions based on what you see. Be prepared, it’s a bloody mess.”

He swung open the door, and they went inside.

The hallway was dimly lit. The windows were low and the space didn’t have much light. But it was surprisingly spacious, with dark hardwood floors and white walls. They walked past a kitchenette with brown granite countertops and stainless appliances into a decent-size great room with a large flat-screen TV and a relatively new black leather couch.

“Someone spruced up this place,” Sam said.

“Apparently, Cattafi. He likes to renovate in his spare time. Landlord was all for it—it will only improve the rental value for a new renter.”

“Spare time? When I was in med school, spare time meant shoving in two slices of pizza while mentally rehearsing the vascular system and getting horizontal as quickly as possible for as long as I could.”

“Horizontal, eh?” he said with a leer.

“Sleeping,” she replied forcefully, but couldn’t help blushing. There’d been quite a bit of horizontal rumba while she was in med school, too, with her love, Eddie Donovan, away from home. He was gone now, but it wasn’t lost on her that Eddie was the reason she was standing here, in a blood-spattered apartment in Georgetown, her own house and new life, a new love, only a block away.

Eddie had been an officer in Xander’s Ranger unit in the Army. Their shared loved for the man was an unbreakable bond between them.

“Earth to Owens.”

She came back to the apartment. “Sorry, Fletch. Daydreaming.”

“If you’re ready, then...” He gestured toward the small hallway, and she stepped through into the living room.

Fletcher wasn’t kidding. The place was a bloody mess. Dark stains were everywhere. The bar to the kitchen, the floor into the hall, the walls.

“Someone went pretty nuts in here.”

Sam shook her head. “It’s arterial spray. The velocity can be shocking. I assume this is Souleyret’s blood, since she’s the one who’s dead. She’s clearly missing quite a lot of it.”

“That’s what it looks like. Keep going.”

Sam stepped carefully, avoiding the bloody trail of shuffling footprints that smeared down the hallway. She hugged the wall, edged into the bedroom. Things were worse in here, the meaty scent of the blood intensified in the smaller space. She could see where Souleyret had bled out; she’d crawled across the small bedroom floor until she bumped up against the base of the bed. The rug was stained crimson, with a small, nearly bloodless impression in the middle. Sam could see the girl, curled up against the bed, arms around legs as she died. The bedclothes themselves were rumpled and stained with blood. The wall behind the bed was decorated with cast-off spatter in a morbid Jackson Pollock–esque pattern.

“Where was Cattafi found?” she asked.

“There. Other side of the bed. Like he fell off.”

She moved carefully to the other side of the room. There was a lot of blood on the floor here, too, similarly spaced, with a bloodless impression. “He was half on, half off?” she asked.

“Yes. Three great big wounds to his torso, the knife in his hand.”

“Photos?”

“Plenty of them. But first, tell me, what do you see?”

She shut her eyes briefly and let the scene coalesce before her. Heard the screams of Souleyret, tried to envision the step-by-step that led to the great gouts of blood spread throughout the apartment. A bottle fly bumbled drunkenly past her ear. She opened her eyes, swatted at it. Amazing how the food chain supplemented itself. Less than twelve hours in and new lives were already springing up.

“Conventional wisdom says Cattafi stabbed her in the living room. She managed to get away and dragged herself into the bedroom. He followed her, administered one last cut, then stabbed himself in the chest three times. He did leave a note.”

Sam was already shaking her head. “No. That’s not it. Look.”

She pointed to the floor, showed Fletcher a scrape in the trail of blood. A fuzzy footprint, barely discernible, with the heel and toe in the wrong spot to support his theory. “He was backing in here. Blocking whoever had attacked them from getting to Souleyret again. He was protecting her. When the blood’s run, you’ll find his is in the living room, too. There was definitely a third party involved.”

Fletcher was looking at her like she’d just conjured water out of thin air. He knelt down, looked closer at the footprint. Walked it off mentally, stood with a grunt.

“You’re right. Damn it. How did you do that? You saw the whole scene.”

“I...” She stopped. He was right. What the hell had just happened? Was she suddenly psychic? Able to discern from the scene what had happened just by its proximity?

A feeling of dread ran through her. No. She wasn’t. And she wasn’t reimagining the crime scene, either. She’d seen it before. Or one that looked damn close to it.

Chapter 10

SAM WALKED THROUGH the crime scene once more, tracing the backward steps of Thomas Cattafi. Everything was muddled; the blood had dried in streaky brown swooshes, but now that she knew what she was looking for, she could clearly see his steps. It went that way sometimes; when the blood was fresh, it was hard to see exactly what had happened. That’s why it took so long to release crime scenes—good homicide detectives would come back two or three times to see how the scene changed as it aged.

She thought about the files on her coffee table. The Hometown Killer stabbed several of his victims. Could he have struck again, so soon, this time in Georgetown? And was this the reason Baldwin wanted her on the case? He sensed yet another connection?

No. She was reading into the crime scene, projecting all the horrors from the files she’d been reading the night before. It was all in her imagination.

She dragged her attention back to Fletcher, who was visibly upset. “This is staged to look like a murder-suicide. The note, the blood being dispersed, everything. But it’s a setup. How did we miss this?”

“Sometimes a zebra is a zebra,” Sam said. “And sometimes a zebra is an elephant in disguise.”

He cocked his head. “Huh?”

“Occam’s razor. Your team went to the most logical conclusion because that’s what the scene was meant to present. What exactly do we know about Amanda Souleyret?”

Fletcher caught the tone in her voice. “Not much. We just took her body out of here an hour ago. Why?” he asked slowly.

“Do you know where she’s from?”

Fletcher’s dark eyes were troubled. “We don’t know much at all. Just the basics. It’s early days in the investigation. I figured her family can fill us in.”

“I’d like to be there. To talk to them, I mean.”

“Sam, what aren’t you telling me?”

Sam ignored him. She bent, looked closer at the small breakfast bar. “Here,” she said quietly. “It started here.”

Fletcher nodded, ran a hand across his chin. He hadn’t shaved and the hairs rasped against his palm. “That’s what my blood spatter analyst said, too. First strike left that lovely castoff.” He pointed at the ceiling. Spots of blackened blood speckled the white. “I’d say whoever killed her was in a rare temper.”

Sam could envision the knife, gliding silver through the air, an overhand arc. Landing with a thunk into the woman’s neck, the arterial spray shooting. Souleyret’s screams, if she had screamed, would have been cut off as quickly as they started. And then he’d stabbed her again and again, driving her back into the bedroom, where Cattafi had tried to defend her, had put himself in the killer’s path.

She admired him for it. It would most likely cost him his life, but at least he’d die a hero. A waste, either way.

“Tell me what you know, Sam.”

“I don’t know anything, Fletch. For a moment, the scene seemed familiar. Just to satisfy my curiosity, when we finish up here, let’s stop back at my place. I’ll take a look at my files, see what’s niggling at me about this.”

He took her word for it. She tucked the odd feeling of familiarity away. She’d look at it later. There were other questions that needed to be answered. Most importantly, what was an undercover FBI agent doing in the apartment of a Georgetown University medical student?

She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. Smelled something off, something close. Deeper than the tang of blood and the effluvia of dead bodies. Sweet, almost flowerlike, but not. She couldn’t place it, had never come across the scent before. It wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t a natural part of the crime scene, she was sure. It smelled a bit like overripe honeysuckle, but sharper, with some mint, perhaps, both scents overlaid with a sickly rot that made her gorge rise.

Where was it coming from? She saw nothing unusual, or out of place, except for the copious streaks of blood.

“Fletch, come here. Do you smell anything?”

Fletcher breathed in deep. “Blood and gore and carpet cleaner. Maybe some old pot smoke. Bacon grease.”

“Nothing flowerlike? Like old flowers left to mold in a vase of water?”

“Like the way patchouli smells? I’ve never liked it, but I can’t say—”

“No, that’s not it.”

Fletcher came closer, sniffing. “Ugh. Yeah, I smell it now. What the hell? It wasn’t here earlier.”

Sam edged to the breakfast bar, wrinkled her nose as the smell grew stronger. She looked closer at the bar. Runnels of blood had come off the counter, streamed down the paneling. There was a break in the blood, almost as if a ruler had been placed in the down flow and the blood had run over it in a perfect line.

“Do you have a Maglite?” she asked.

“Sure,” Fletcher replied, handing her the flashlight he’d stuffed in his jacket pocket.

She shone the light on the edges of the counter, then down into the paneling. In one small area, about twelve inches across, the blood dribbled into nowhere, just plain disappeared. There was an edge here, a break in the wood. It was almost indistinguishable from the other panels—it looked like a normal seam where the pieces met. She reached out and pressed the edge, and a panel popped open. The scent gusted forth, and she stepped back, gagging.

“Christ, what is that?”

Sam pulled the waist of her T-shirt up to cover her nose. She flashed the light into the small space. Saw a silver handle. Using her gloved hand, she pulled it open.

And immediately began backing away again.

Son of a bitch.

“Fletcher, alert HAZMAT. Now.”

His head jerked toward her. “What is it? What’s in there?”

“It’s a wine refrigerator, but the power’s been cut.”

“Let me see.”

“Don’t—”

He stepped around her. “What is this stuff? Some sort of science experiment?”

Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him backward, toward the front door. “Without examining it closely, I can’t say for sure. There’s a bottle labeled Vibrio cholerae.”

At his blank look, she explained. “Cholera, Fletch. And there’s more than one vial in there. Cattafi has an unsecured refrigerator full of transmissible, possibly deadly bacteria and viruses. Ones that shouldn’t be anywhere but in a secure lab.”

“What do you mean, deadly bacteria and viruses? What the hell?”

She glanced back at the refrigerator. “It looks like Thomas Cattafi was being a bad, bad boy.”

Chapter 11

McLean, Virginia

RILEY CALLED ROBIN just past ten. She was still at the house. She’d called in sick, which raised a few eyebrows, but to hell with them. She hadn’t had a sick day since she’d woken up in Ramstein, Germany, three years earlier, pumped full of shrapnel from the remnants of a roadside IED. A blindingly red day, it was all she could remember, a fog of puce, sucking at her, draining her dry. Later, when she was healed, she remembered the screams, and was happy the fog had taken away the memories.

She rubbed her left side, where the scars were the worst. She couldn’t be upset about them. She was the only one who’d survived intact. Another five feet and that wouldn’t have been the case. She’d be missing legs and arms, like the rest of the team, not just her spleen and a kidney. Aside from the lingering headaches and occasional blackouts and swirls of colors when people talked or were emotional, she was just fine. Mostly fine.

She answered the phone with trepidation, wondered where her nerve had gone.

“What’s happening?”

“A lot. The police just called HAZMAT to Cattafi’s apartment.”

“HAZMAT? What in the hell?”

“I don’t know. Was Amanda still on that vaccine scam?”

“I think so. She was working it hard a few months ago, I know. But, Riley, seriously, we hadn’t talked in a few weeks. I don’t know if it has anything to do with her. Might be the boyfriend’s troubles.”

“Speaking of, Alicia traced the call made to your cell phone this morning. It pinged off the tower closest to Amanda’s town house on Capitol Hill.”

Robin pulled a cup down from the cabinet, the delicate china from her parents’ wedding set, went about making a cup of tea. “As far as I know, she has that place rented out to a couple of congressional aides. She wouldn’t go there if she came to town. She’d just grab a hotel room, or stay with me.” Or go stay with a boyfriend Robin knew nothing about. “Someone should do a welfare check, just in case.”

“I’ll send Lola.”

Lola Jergens was Riley’s particular pet. Petite, wheat blonde, small enough to fit in his pocket, attractive in a bland, generic, easy-to-forget-her-face way, he’d been grooming her to handle the more discreet needs of their workload around town. He took her on assignment sometimes, too. Robin had to admit, Lola was a good choice. They could count on her to be subtle. Then she thought about it, and changed her mind.

“No. I’ll go. I have a key. It will save us some time. Where is the phone now?”

“After the call, it drops off the grid.”

“Destroyed?”

“Most likely. Listen, Robbie, you have to operate under the assumption that whoever has, or had, that phone knows where you are. Knows who you are.”

She patted the Glock under her arm, though he couldn’t see the action. “Worry not. I’m ready for anything. Just so you know, I put a call in to Atlantic. We’ll see if he knows anything about this.”

“Good, that’s good. Do I want to know what HAZMAT is going to find?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. But I’m going to go take a look in her files, see what I can dig up.”

“Has Metro been in touch yet?”

“I would assume they’re having a hard time finding me. I’ll go to them once we know what’s really happening.”

A surge of red filled the air. Mop up your mess, little sister. Followed by a swirl of canary yellow. How dare you die on me!

“Be careful, Robbie. Stay in touch.”

“Always.”

* * *

Robin logged in to her secure home system and immediately went to her email account. Checked to see if there was anything from Amanda officially, saw nothing. She logged out, crossed platforms, went to Gmail and tried Amanda’s account. Prayed she hadn’t changed the password—not that it would matter; Robin could get in, it would simply take more time—but she was lucky. The password was the same, and moments later, her sister’s private correspondence was open.

She ignored the inbox, went directly to the drafts folder. It was a common trick—give two people access to a single account, and communicate through the drafts without ever sending the email, thus ensuring absolute privacy.

There was a single draft email in the file, dated three hours earlier. Addressed to Amanda, no subject. Five innocuous words.

Did you get it in?

There was nothing else in the folder.

Robin quickly scanned the remaining emails, saw nothing outside the norm.

Did she get what in? And to where?

She itched to get her hands on Amanda’s laptop and her phone. There wasn’t much Robin could do accessing remotely on her own computer, but with Mandy’s, if she’d not erased the history each night as she should, Robin might be able to re-create the drafts folder, see what other messages might be in there. Better yet, her phone might have a cached version of the drafts inbox, which would hold the earlier messages.

What could she have been trying to bring in? The vaccines, yes, Robin knew about that project. Was there something in them? Something deadly, or earth-shattering?

Something worth dying for?

Drumming her fingers on the table, little puffs of slate rising from the taps, she decided.

She’d go to Mandy’s house, look around a bit, then it was time to see what Metro had discovered.

Chapter 12

Teterboro Airport New Jersey

BELOW XANDER, AS the tarmac exploded into action—a cacophony of shouts and screams and the background roar of a plane’s engines reversing as it landed—Xander slid down to the roof, rolled to his back and stared at the sky. He hadn’t thought this through, had only reacted. From the moment the SIG was in his hand, his forefinger caressing the trigger, the end was clear. He’d gone into a trance of perfect focus and eliminated the threat. What he was trained to do.

Clouds scudded past, lacing the blue sky with billows of white. Calming, comforting. Skies were all different. Some forbidding, some beautiful. He’d lain on roofs and grounds across the world, waiting, planning, watching—frightened and cold and overwhelmed at times—and the sky had always been with him.

He thought back to the moment Chalk approached him about starting the firm, realized that he’d never fully conceptualized what might happen. He’d known intellectually he might be forced to kill again, but he was supposed to be in protection now, damn it all. Saving lives, not taking them.

For a life he’d just taken, no question about it. He rolled over onto his stomach again, looked over the edge to the target. The man he’d shot was slumped over the parapet, arms dangling. A rusty smear was giving in to gravity, spreading slowly down the concrete.

He came back to himself, realized Chalk was going mad in his ear.

“Mutant, talk to me. What’s wrong? I can’t hear you, repeat, I can’t hear you!”

“Chalk,” he said quietly, and his friend calmed immediately.

“You okay, buddy? That was one hell of a shot. You want to come on down?”

Come down, face the world, the scrutiny. He didn’t know what upset him more, that he’d so calmly negated the threat, or that he’d never questioned the only course of action was to take the threat down. Could he have done something different? He’d reacted, unthinking, and the fallout was going to be insane.

Face it, Whitfield. You’re a stone-cold killer. Always have been, always will.

Killing is my business, and business has been good.

“Coming.”

He shoved down the dark thoughts, forced himself to his feet. Climbed down the ladder to the scene below.

* * *

Their principal was out of sight, but the Teterboro Airport security was not. Chalk had clearly been trying to explain what was happening, but the Teterboro cops were more inclined to arrest the two men with concealed weapons, especially the one who’d done the shooting, and ask questions later.

Xander handed over his SIG, suffered being slammed against a yellow cinder-block wall, legs and arms spread-eagled and roughly frisked. He let them put cuffs on him without a fight.

Chalk wasn’t being nearly as calm. He’d managed to get James Denon isolated before they started the Gestapo act with Xander, and was dancing around the cops trying to explain their role in the situation. Denon was finally tapped to confirm who they were, and with his testimony, the cops relaxed a bit. They took off Chalk’s cuffs, but kept Xander chained, seated at a chipped table that looked like it had been recycled from a prison.

Xander heard sirens coming closer. They’d called the New Jersey state police, probably the FBI, too. An ambulance, though it wouldn’t be necessary. A meat wagon was more appropriate. News trucks would follow. Xander knew they needed to get Denon out of there immediately.

After a few more minutes of chaos, their bona fides were established, and Xander was uncuffed for the time being. He stood, rubbing his chafed wrists. The last time he’d been in cuffs was during counterinsurgency training. They made him feel caged, something he fought against. Once, the comforts of the military, its regimented days, worked for him. Now, he simply wanted to be free.

Threats were still lingering in the air, the Teterboro cops glaring and bristling. When the state police arrived, they would make the call. Xander had a feeling he knew how this was going to go down—the cuffs would go back on, he’d be transported, arraigned, bail set. He would have to call Sam to come get him; Chalk didn’t have the means to spring him, not yet.

Not how he wanted things to go today.

Finally, Xander and Chalk were escorted to Denon’s isolated room; the door closed quickly behind them. Denon shot a hard glance at the handle as the lock thunked home, but shrugged and took a deep breath. He was a handsome man, foppish blond hair, fit and trim, very British schoolboy grows up and does well for himself. He was charming and smart and, despite the attempt on his life, was pale but composed. Xander thought he was handling the attempted assassination with a great deal of calm.

Denon pointed to the ceiling, then deliberately turned his back to the camera. They joined him in the middle of the room, a scrum against the digital intrusion. “Who was the shooter?” he asked quietly.

Xander shook his head. “We don’t know yet. There will be an investigation, obviously, which is out of our hands now. We’ll try to keep it quiet, but there’s no telling how the airport police will work with the New Jersey cops. This could be all over the news in twenty minutes.”

“It’s already leaking out.” Denon showed them a tweet from a local account, someone who’d been at Teterboro and took pictures of the dead man dangling off the roof. “It’s only a matter of time before they connect this with me.”

Xander straightened, put his arms behind his back, parade rest. “I apologize, sir. I know you wanted to keep your visit and our involvement quiet. This isn’t what we had in mind. I am fully prepared to take responsibility for the situation and keep your name out of it, if at all possible.”

Denon gave him an incredulous look. “You just saved my life, and you’re apologizing and offering to take the fall? Bloody hell, man, you’re my hero. If you hadn’t acted so quickly, I’d be on that tarmac with a bullet in me.” He clapped Xander on the shoulder. “Thank you. Both of you. You acted in my best interest, and I refuse to let them prosecute you, in my name, or in yours. We’ll get this situation straightened, you have my word.”

Xander nodded. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Worthington will get you back on track here shortly. I’m sure the police will need a statement from you, so I’m assuming it will be at least an hour before you’ll be able to leave.”

Denon’s schoolboy face split into a winning grin, and Xander felt a measure of relief when he said, “To be honest, Mr. Whitfield, I think I’d rather stick by your side for the time being. I don’t want to see you get railroaded for doing your job. And I want to know who the hell just tried to kill me.”

Chapter 13

Georgetown O Street Thomas Cattafi’s apartment

IT DIDN’T TAKE long for the big guns to arrive, wearing their space-age polymer suits, hooked into oxygen. Sam and Fletcher were taken through a portable decontamination unit, had blood samples drawn and were told to stay put. Phones, her purse, shoes, everything, was taken away.

Sam had an awful sense of déjà vu; she’d been through something similar a few months back, when a crazed man had used a homegrown biological weapon to gas the Foggy Bottom Metro station and she’d been sitting at ground zero at the George Washington University Hospital waiting to be cleared to go home.

She pushed the thought away. No sense revisiting the past until she knew what she was dealing with. Or whom.

Thomas Cattafi. She didn’t know the name—no reason she should, really, if he was a fourth-year M.D./Ph.D. student. Two years of med school, four years of specialized research, then back to the med school side to finish the clinical rotations. A hellish tract, one few students wanted, and fewer survived. Sam was only working with the first-year forensic pathology students, the dewy-eyed youngsters who thought everything about med school was cool. Soon enough, they’d become hardened and cynical, like everyone else.

What in the hell was a student doing with a refrigerator full of pathogens? Even if he was an M.D./Ph.D. candidate, there was no reason to have the items at his home. They belonged in a lab. Cattafi was involved in something bad, that was for sure. Something this woman, Amanda Souleyret, had brought to his door?

And what about the scene felt so familiar?

Since she had a few moments of leisure, she thought back to the Hometown Killer files, the autopsy photos, ran everything through her head. Two of the women in the series had been stabbed—Terri Snow from Topeka and Jan Tovey from San Francisco. Blood everywhere, the women’s bodies found in the bedroom. The Snow crime scene was the one that struck her as familiar.

You’re reaching, Samantha.

She wanted to call Baldwin, demand a briefing, but he was on a plane. There was nothing he could do for her right now. She’d shot him an email before they took her phone, told him to get back to her the moment he landed. She had a problem, and he needed to be secure before he reached out. The last thing she needed was someone capturing the message and leaking this to the press. Hopefully they’d be cleared before he started burning up the wires.

She watched the HAZMAT team move about, smelled the intense scent of rain coming. Worried, but just a little, about whether she’d been exposed to something horrible. The refrigerator had been empty of wine and unplugged, so the pathogens weren’t at the right temperature, nor were they specially packaged. It was almost as if Cattafi had been working on something, been interrupted and hurriedly shut the pathogens away in the refrigerator. Forgotten to plug it in.

Or someone had purposely unplugged it.

When and for how long it had been turned off was anyone’s guess—it had its own power source, so they’d have to track all that down, too.

She hadn’t touched anything, and all the discs and vials she’d seen looked like they’d been properly handled and were sealed, except for the one that was cracked, leaking and smelling awful. But one never knew. A list of hemorrhagic diseases ran through her mind, countdowns, worried doctors, isolation chambers, right into visions of blood gushing from various orifices, leaking from fissures cracking open in her porcelain skin, until she shook her head to physically stop the thoughts.

There was nothing to be done right now. Everyone who’d come in contact with Cattafi for the past few weeks would have to be examined, all the crime scene investigators tested. This was a mess of epic proportion.

The autopsy of Amanda Souleyret was postponed, her body in isolation, until they knew more about what was happening. There was no sense infecting the morgue if it could be avoided.

She soothed herself with a single thought—if Cattafi had been symptomatic, they’d have already heard from the hospital. Went back to worrying about a more immediate problem.

The pack of vials and discs had seemed undisturbed, but she’d noticed there was a single spot in the tray of vials that was empty. She hoped like hell there wasn’t something missing, something the killer had taken.

And with that thought, the scene began to make more sense.

She was wrong. There was nothing familiar here. Cattafi had been targeted because someone knew about his little lab.

She watched the HAZMAT team work, moving slowly, like they were underwater. Felt a bit like she was underwater herself, isolated and alone, though Fletcher was with her.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“Mmm-hmm. Annoyed more than anything.”

“This is turning into something more than it first seemed.”

He gave her a sharp glance. “With you, it always does.” But there was humor in his voice. “Entertain me. I’m bored.”

“You’re joking, right? What do you want me to do, tell you a bedtime story?”

“While that has its own compelling set of responses, I was thinking more along the lines of what sort of work Amanda Souleyret might be doing that’s drawn the attention of the FBI.”

“Oh, it’s speculation you want. I’m good at that.” She settled herself more comfortably on the table they’d been given to sit on. “All right. You’ll find out soon enough. Souleyret is undercover FBI.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She was working for a company called Helix.”

“Explain.”

“Helix is a huge European firm with offices in several countries that run all kinds of private investigations, from industrial espionage to pharmaceutical investigations. They also work on pharmaceutical espionage. Trademark infringements, ripping off formularies, passing off generics as the real thing. There’s a more...physical component to what they do, as well. An entire division of close protection, K and R—kidnap and ransom—the whole gamut. It’s like what Xander and his buddy are doing, only on a much bigger scale.”

“Like the Pinkertons?”

She smiled, imagining Xander and Chalk in suits and fedoras. “Something like that. Perhaps a little less gunplay, a little more computer-driven research. But yes. They’re essentially detectives, and protectors of the realm.”

“And whichever realm pays the best gets their undying loyalty?”

“For the term of the contract.”

“So what’s an FBI asset doing there?”

“It’s a great place for her, really. They have unlimited funds and unlimited access all across Europe. Until we know exactly what project she was working on, we won’t know how they benefited her, but until she got herself dead, she had it good. Xander and Chalk, they’re just starting out. Competing with a behemoth company like Helix is hard.”

“And yet they’re going to try.”

“Some people want more discreet protection. That’s going to be their niche.”

“You’re good with that? Him being all heroic and stuff?”

She hesitated before answering, and he nodded, touched her knee. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to tell me. I can see you’re worried about it, though.”

“Close protection is dangerous, especially if they start working overseas. I don’t necessarily want to see him go back into Iraq or Afghanistan. Everything that happened with Eddie Donovan, the fratricide, it messed him up. That’s all.”

“Then we should make sure to find him work here. I’ll put the word out, if you like.”

She gave him that heartbreaking smile of hers. “Thank you, Fletcher. I appreciate that.”

Jesus, no matter how much in love, in lust or whatever he was with another woman, the sight of Samantha Owens at full wattage still made his gonads clench. He decided he liked the reaction. To hell with it not being proper for friends to get those feelings.

He cleared his throat. “All right. Another question. Did Souleyret bring the pathogens into the country with her? And if so, how the hell would she transport them? If she worked in France, she had to go through customs somewhere when she got over here. How in the world could they miss this?”

“Maybe a private flight to a private airport? The last time I traveled overseas, security sent the bags through the scanner as usual, with no special scrutiny on my personal stuff, even though I had a bottle of vitamins in there. It wouldn’t be hard to package these as some sort of medicine and slip them through. You can take anything on a flight if you have a prescription for it, or it looks like it belongs. We’re sort of on an honor system.”

“Her bags would still have to be checked at the private airports, but you have a point. The question is, where did she come in, and when?”

She grinned at him again, teeth flashing white. “I guess that’s what you’re going to have to figure out, aren’t you? Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“And you’re not going to help at all, are you?”

“Hey, I’m not Nancy Drew. I’m the mind of reason here. I do the science. The mystery is yours to sort out.”

“And sort it I will. Look who’s here at last.” He waved to Lonnie Hart, who pulled his black Caprice to the curb and waved back. Fletcher was glad to see him. Hart had been his partner for years. They’d been detectives together for almost eight, partners for six. Hart had a keen mind, a laconic attitude and an ongoing love affair with his weight bench. When Fletcher moved up the ladder, he’d brought Hart along with him. Hart’s promotion was Fletcher’s only stipulation to accepting the lieutenant position.

Hart gave them an ironic salute and went to find the head of the HAZMAT team, a buxom woman named Sophie Lewis. They talked together for a moment, then he gave Fletcher a thumbs-up.

Sam knocked into his shoulder. “That looks like good news.”

And it was.

Chapter 14

DISASTER AVERTED, PROBABLY, at least for the time being. Field tests were negative for live, dangerous pathogens, but they were asked to stay in isolation for the time being. People would stop by every once in a while to update them. Feeding time at the zoo. Fletcher was going mad just sitting here, watching. He wanted to help. Even with a tentative all clear, he needed to do something to take his mind off the idea of tiny invisible razorlike creatures multiplying in his bloodstream, inching him toward a slow and certain death.

The list of pathogens grew as the morning wore on, bacteria and viruses and diseases that were deadly and transmissible, all mixed together unsecured in the Georgetown apartment. There were names Fletcher was familiar with, or at least could puzzle out: Clostridium botulinum, Salmonella enteritidis, diarrheagenic Escherichia coli, SARS coronavirus, HIV. And a few he couldn’t, specifically something Sam said was a generic hemorrhagic flavivirus—as if there was anything generic about hemorrhagic viruses—plus a mosquito-borne alphavirus called chikungunya, and something in a nasty pink solution with a handwritten label: Gransef. No one had heard of that one before.

Fletcher was livid. How his crime scene techs had missed the refrigerator of doom, as he’d mentally dubbed it, was lost on him. It had taken Sam all of ten minutes to find it. There was going to be a shitstorm back at headquarters. In the meantime, he needed to find out what the hell Thomas Cattafi was doing with all these pathogens in his hidden refrigerator, and why he and Amanda Souleyret had been attacked.

And what vial, if any, was missing from the lot. The vials were in a plastic carrier, and one slot was open. When Sam had pointed it out, his stomach dropped to his knees. That lone emptiness freaked him out more than anything.

The meeting at State had been pushed back to noon. Sam had the day off but asked a crime scene tech to relay a message to her TA, Stephanie, to handle anything that might come up during the afternoon. Though unable to return to work, her insatiable curiosity was keeping her mood buoyed. He could see she was starting to chafe at being left out, like him, as the HAZMAT team began retrieving the pathogens from Cattafi’s apartment, but she watched the proceedings with bright eyes.

She’d never last at Georgetown. He’d been surprised when she accepted the position in the first place, surprised she’d agreed to upend her life and move to D.C. If there was ever a woman who should have a badge, a lifeline into investigations, it was her. Her passion for the job was clear, and while he had no doubt she was passionate about teaching, too, he couldn’t imagine it could be nearly as fun as what they’d stumbled into this morning.

At least Baldwin had talked her into consulting for the FBI. She had a gift, and Fletcher was happy someone was going to be able to use it.

Towering clouds were gathering briskly over the Potomac. With heart-stopping suddenness, the sun disappeared. He could hear gentle rumbles of thunder in the distance. Watching the curtain rise on the show, he understood how the ancients looked at storms as a form of the gods arguing. He could do with a little divine interference himself.

He needed to get cleared so he could go over to George Washington University Hospital and see how Thomas Cattafi was faring. The folks at GW had been warned to treat him as a HAZMAT, though by now, with all the people who’d come into contact with him, if he’d fucked up and mishandled any of the pathogens in his apartment, they were all screwed. The same went for Souleyret’s body—the morgue had been cautioned to treat her autopsy with the utmost of care.

Always something, Fletcher thought.

A tech came with their phones, handed them off. They were still wrapped in plastic. “They’re ringing off the hook. Deal with it.”

Sam immediately grabbed hers and started listening to messages. Fletcher did the same—a call from Armstrong, chewing his ass out for getting exposed to this shit and tying up the investigation, and by the way, I hope you’re okay; Hart, on his way over; Jordan, his I think I can safely call her my girlfriend, wanting to know if he was free for lunch on Friday, when she arrived back in town; and oddly, his ex-wife, Felicia, who rarely reached out, asking if he could take Tad this weekend.

Nothing that helped the case.

When he finished, he saw Sam was on the phone, eyes averted. She glanced his way, then hung up. He leaned over to her. “Who are you talking to? No, let me guess. Xander.”

She gave him a crooked grin. “If you must know, that was Amado. He was going to post the woman in an hour. I asked if I could stop by and watch. He agreed to wait until we finish the meeting at the State Department first. It will take them a while to set up the precautions, anyway. They’ve done some preliminary blood work to see if anything stands out. So far, she’s showing clean.”

Fletcher sighed in relief. “Good. Hopefully she hadn’t gotten into anything. I’ll go with you. I want both our eyes on this.”

“It’s going to be an interesting one, that’s for sure. None of the vials were disturbed, but the refrigerator had been turned off. The C-bot—sorry, botulism—had begun breaking down. It wasn’t perfectly sealed, and that’s what the terrible smell was. The proteins began to decompose, just like flesh.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Is botulism a hazard?”

She shook her head. “It is a disease, not an airborne pathogen, which is the only reason we’re being isolated here instead of locked down in a containment unit. No, I don’t think there’s any real danger from any of these, so long as they’re treated properly. But it’s quite convenient that he had the wine fridge built into the bar. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it.”

“But maybe the killer did find it. There might be a vial missing. Hell, we’re going in circles. We need to find out what Souleyret was doing with Cattafi in the first place.”

“Yes, we do. I have word in to Baldwin. As soon as he lands in Denver, he’ll call. He told me he didn’t think her current assignment had anything to do with her death, but that was when we thought this was a domestic. Now that we’re dealing with a potential double murder, we have to approach it in a whole new light. Face it, Fletch. You’re stuck with me.”

He grinned at her. “What a perfectly horrible thought.”

Hart came by a few minutes later. Arms bulging, neck now sweating. He had a hand on the Glock at his waist, an impenetrable look spread across his face.

Fletcher put up his hands.

“Don’t shoot, Occifer. I ain’t drunk.”

“You’re demented, that’s what you are,” Hart replied. “And cleared. All the field tests are negative. You’re fine, you’re out of isolation. All the brain rot is from natural causes.” He turned to Sam with a smile. “Good to see you, Doc. This loon roped you into another case?”

“Hey, I’m your commander—you can’t call me a loon.”

Hart rolled his eyes. “Doc, I ever tell you about the time me and Fletch were down in Loudon County on a domestic? Turns out this guy’d been doing it with his goat, and the wife caught him going at it in the barn, lost it, grabbed the closest weapon and pumped him full of bird shot. Dude dies with his, ahem, boots on, so to speak. Now, Fletch here, he’s trying to figure out how we save this poor goat, so he—”

Sam was already giggling, and Fletcher reached out like he was going to smack Hart’s arm, but thought better of touching him. “Don’t you dare say another word, or I’ll bump you back to uniform. Tell me what’s happening at the hospital. How’s Cattafi?”

Hart flashed him a grin, then got serious. “Dude lost a lot of blood. He’s not giving too many signs of waking up anytime soon. His family’s on a flight in from Michigan. They’ll be in—” he checked his watch “—by one or two. There are big storms in Chicago and their plane was delayed. Your dead chick has a sister. We’re trying to locate her to do notification now. There’s not a lot of info floating around about either one of them, and the vic lived overseas. We’re trying to track it all down. I figure you’re gonna want to talk to the families when we round them up, at the very least.”

“Kind of you to save them for me.”

“Yeah, yeah. The sacrifices I make.”

“Cattafi’s parents wrecked?”

“They’re as distraught as you can imagine. Claim the kid’s some sort of supergenius. Gonna cure cancer, all that.”

“I keep hearing that. Anything on the traffic cams? I noticed one on the corner.”

“We’re looking at everything between ten and two. And we’re going to recanvass the area. There’s a camera mounted a few doors down, but the folks weren’t home when we knocked.”

“Good. Anything we can get will help. Sam, you know his professors at Georgetown, right? Can you get us in to talk to them?”

She nodded. “Of course. I’ll go set something up right now.” She walked a little ways down the leafy green street, punching numbers in her cell phone.

Hart gave him the fish eye. “What are you doing, dragging her in here? She’s a civilian, Fletcher, albeit a talented one. You can’t keep involving her in our cases. It’s not seemly.”

“Now, now, don’t get your panties in a wad. She’s a legitimate part of the investigation. Apparently, our female vic was undercover FBI. Sam’s taking John Baldwin’s place for the time being while he deals with another case.”

“Whose idea was that?”

Fletcher smiled. “Lonnie, worry not, okay? I wouldn’t do anything to compromise this investigation. She’s got a knack for this—took her all of ten minutes to dig out the hidden refrigerator. Speaking of which, I trust you’ve told Robertson I’m gunning for him?” Mel Robertson was the head of the crime scene unit—it was his boys and girls who’d screwed the pooch.

“Robertson is quaking in his size-fourteen boots.” A few spatters of rain started, and Hart popped a baseball cap onto his bald pate.

Fletcher put the file he was holding over his own head as a shield. “I’m not kidding. If Robertson ain’t gonna take this seriously, I’ll let Armstrong go after him. What sort of bullshit is this, that we can’t trust our own crime scene techs to do their jobs?”

“You sound like a bureaucrat.” But Hart was smiling. He liked the idea of Robertson getting chewed out.

“I am a bureaucrat. Now.”

Sam was walking back toward them, a worried look on her face. When she reached them, Fletcher shared his file folder with her.

“What’s the matter?”

She bit her lip. “Thomas Cattafi isn’t a student at Georgetown anymore. He was kicked out two weeks ago. The dean says he can’t discuss it over the phone. We’ll have to go see him to find out more.”

Chapter 15

Teterboro Airport New Jersey

XANDER WAS ONCE again standing with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot to alleviate the boredom. As predicted, when the New Jersey cops had rolled in, he’d been recuffed and brought to another interrogation room inside the Teterboro Airport, then left to cool his heels while the powers that be decided what to do with him. The room was a dingy white, a twin to the one he’d been in with Chalk and Denon, nothing more than a table, four chairs and a camera bolted high in the northeast corner. No windows, nothing to allow him to entertain himself.

Left to his own devices, he’d begun brooding about the shooting again. He’d done the right thing, he knew it, but the image of the shooter crumpling over the parapet replayed in his mind. He hadn’t killed anyone since he’d separated from the Army, taken his honorable discharge and walked away into the woods. For the first several weeks, he’d even done catch and release on the damn trout he landed, simply because he couldn’t stand the thought of harming anything else.

That ended. Of course it did. His sense returned. But he’d not taken a human life since that last firefight in Jalālābād, and he’d hoped he never would have to again.

If he was going to have a career in close protection, clearly he was going to have to realign his priorities.

The door opened, and a plainclothes officer he hadn’t seen before walked in. He uncuffed Xander, handed him a bottle of water, shook his hand.

“Arlen Grant. New Jersey State Police. Seems you’ve had yourself an interesting day.” Grant was tall and lanky, a solid jaw, just this side of forty, hair about to thin but not there yet, with a sleek gray suit and a chunky stainless-steel watch, a Fitbit trainer on the opposite wrist. He had the hungry look of a man who’d lost weight recently, and would do most anything to sink his teeth into a thick steak and fries instead of salad and veggies.

“You could say that.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story, top to bottom, then we’ll talk about your next steps.”

Xander assessed Grant openly. He seemed friendly enough. Almost too friendly. All of Xander’s warning bells went off.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I want to hear the story in your own words, man-to-man. That’s all.”

Xander wasn’t stupid. He saw where this was headed, heard something in Grant’s voice that made him go on alert. He didn’t trust the man.

He hated to do it, because in his capacity as a security agent he’d done his job—protected his principal—but he had to protect himself, too. The facts were indisputable. He’d killed a man, on American soil, in front of a dozen witnesses, with only James Denon and Chalk’s word for it that it wasn’t a well-planned hit. There was no choice, not anymore, not the way Grant was looking at him, like a bird who’s spied a juicy worm across a dew-wet lawn.

“I’ll need a lawyer present, and then I’m happy to tell you the whole story.”

Grant’s expression didn’t change, though he waited for a heartbeat, staring straight into Xander’s eyes. He didn’t say another word, just stood and walked out of the room.

Fuck.

Grant had been expecting the demand. They knew if Xander had half a brain he would lawyer up. Grant had come in as a test.

Ante up.

Xander thought furiously—who was he going to call? He hadn’t exactly kept in close touch with many people since he’d left the Army, just a few Ranger buddies, and they weren’t lawyers. Were they going to keep him here, or take him somewhere else? He’d need to let Sam know.

At the thought of her, he felt his resolve start to crumble. Way to go, man. You’re about to get yourself arrested for murder. Now there’s a phone call to sow marital bliss.

She’d leap into action, he was sure of it. She’d know a good lawyer; she knew everyone, it seemed. And better calling Sam than calling his parents out in Colorado. This wasn’t cow tipping, which was the charge the last time he’d been arrested. Their kindly town sheriff had cuffed him, marched him up the mountain to his parents’ farm and let them mete out the justice, so it wouldn’t go on his record.

Good old Sheriff Houghton. Dead now, but well remembered in Xander’s hometown of Dillon as a great, fair, equitable lawman. Thanks to him, Xander shoveled goat shit for a month.

The door opened, and Grant came back in, a curious look on his face.

“I’m getting my phone call, right?” Xander said.

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a dude on his way here right now, criminal defense hotshot out of New York. Sean Lawhon. Heard of him?”

Xander shook his head.

“Best shark that money can buy. You have a fan in Mr. Denon. He engaged the lawyer’s services on your behalf before you and I ever talked. So. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other until he arrives. Between you and me, I want to stay away from the cameras.”

Great, the media was here. Xander nodded once, curtly. He still needed to call Sam, more so now, before she saw it on TV.

“Am I allowed to make a call?”

“Are you going to talk about the case?”

“Just want to give someone a heads-up. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”

“Why don’t we wait for Mr. Lawhon, then you can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want to trample your rights or anything.” He pulled out his cell phone and began playing a rousing game of solitaire. Judging from the slowness of the clicks, he was losing.

Xander gritted his teeth at Grant’s sarcasm. He’d dealt with men like him plenty of times—either he’d chill when he saw Xander had only been doing his job, and get all sorts of friendly, or he’d go for the jugular. There weren’t going to be any in-betweens. And they would never be friends; a connection would not be made.

Which was fine. He didn’t need more friends.

Xander drank his water, and when he set the empty bottle down, there was a knock at the door. Grant gave his screen one last, doleful glance, then opened the door.

The lawyer was a kid. Xander was only thirty-six, but Lawhon looked at least a decade younger—tan and blond and thick through the shoulders. He looked like he’d be good for a pickup game at the gym. He did not look like a threat.

Which was probably why he was successful. Subterfuge and camouflage.

“Mr. Whitfield? I’m Sean Lawhon. Fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth. His parents hadn’t sprung for braces; Lawhon was a self-made man. “We’ll get this all straightened out in a jiff. No reason to think we won’t be out of here quickly. Is there, Detective Grant?”

Grant watched the show, a pointed look on his otherwise homely face. “He killed a man, Mr. Lawhon. Let’s not lose sight of the facts.”

Lawhon flipped like a switch, the friendliness gone. He looked at Grant like he was an alien. His voice was no longer pleasant, it was grim and angry. “We’re not dealing with a security guard shooting an intruder in a building. This is a trained, and licensed, I might add, professional who stopped an assassination attempt. To even hold him is unconscionable. You should be ashamed of yourself, Detective Grant. This man was doing his duty to his client.”

Grant yawned, showing a gold molar.

“Take it up with the judge, Lawhon. Grand jury is already seated for another case. I’m sure we could push this onto the docket by morning.”

Xander watched the exchange with interest. Grant’s attitude was pissing the kid off. The anger was genuine now, not fabricated for Xander’s benefit.

“Give me a break. There’s not going to be a grand jury. They’d laugh you out of the room, much less even consider indicting. We all know you’re just being difficult because you can.”

Grant’s face tightened at that remark. Lawhon continued his assault. “Why are you still here? Planning to listen in while I talk to my client?”

“Naw,” Grant said. “Just wondering what it is about you city boys and your fancy suits. Enjoy.” He shut the door behind him, and Lawhon took a quick breath, straightened his lapels, turned to Xander and smiled.

“That guy is a raging dickhead. We’ve never gotten along.” The pal tone was back.

“I see that. What did he do?”

“Divorced my sister last year, without a lot of warning. Crushed her. Though he’s always been an ass, that’s nothing new. We’re all just one big happy family.” Lawhon set up on the table, briefcase open, phone out, yellow notepad, Montblanc fountain pen. He saw Xander eyeing the pen. “Gift from my parents when I graduated law school. It was my grandfather’s.”

“Was he a lawyer, too?”

“A writer actually. Parents wanted me to go the same route—the pen is mightier than the sword, all that. Lost their minds when I decided to go to law school. They’re just a couple of hippies, have a commune up in Albany. They didn’t want me working for The Man.”

Xander felt his spirits lift. “As are mine. In Colorado. My folks were rabid when I told them I was going to enlist.”

“I know. I read your file on the way over. You’ve got a fascinating background.” A glint in the blue eyes. “May I call you Moonbeam?”

“If you want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, sure thing.”

Lawhon smiled again, lips closed this time. “Alexander, then.”

“Xander’s fine. What’s their plan? Are they going to charge me?”

Lawhon became all business. “They’re considering it. You stalling Grant made them nervous. There’s a bevy of cops out there. Half of them want to shake your hand, half want to see you strung up.”

“Grant made me uncomfortable. I had a sergeant way back who used to buddy up to us grunts, then use what we told him to make our lives hell. I got the sense Grant would do the same.”

“You’re a shrewd judge of character. Despite my own personal drama, Grant does have a reputation. He isn’t one to be messed with. He’s a true believer. There’s no gray in his world. You’d already be in a cell if you’d talked to him. Now, tell me about the shooting. Whatever possessed you to pull the trigger?”

“Dude was about to take out my principal. I didn’t have a choice.”

Saying it aloud made him feel better. He’d done right. He’d done his job.

“The principal being James Denon, head of Denon Industries, one of the world leaders in oil and gas, mining and the like.”

“Correct. He had business in the city, hired our firm to do his protection. He wanted to be subtle—he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been to the States.”

“So he chose a small, untried firm out of Washington, D.C.?”

“Small, yes. Untried? Hardly. We’ve got more experience in these matters than most.”

“New, then. A new firm.”

“All right. Yes. New.”

“Any idea why he chose you?”

“We were recommended to Mr. Denon by a friend.”

Lawhon tipped his head. “What friend?”

“My partner booked the job. You’ll have to ask him for a name.”

“I’ll do that. The man you shot hasn’t been identified. He had a sniper rifle and enough ammunition to kill every person on that tarmac. Why were you so sure he was going after Denon?”

Xander shifted in his seat. It was a good question, and he needed to be sure of his answer. “Logic. It was a setup. Had to be. Whoever took out the contract on Denon knew we were his people on the ground, and knew our procedures. Once Denon was on the plane and in the air, he ceased to be our responsibility. We were leaving when we got the call the plane was coming back. It was a well-orchestrated plan to get us out of the way.”

Lawhon sat back in the chair. “Pretty elaborate.”

“Yes. Whoever wants him dead hired someone who knows close-protection protocols.” And was using a United States Army–issue enhanced sniper rifle, one Xander himself had used many a time. He didn’t mention that tidbit.

“How did you know for sure the guy was after Denon?”

“Once the plane taxied back and the passengers disembarked, he had multiple opportunities to shoot whomever he wanted. The tarmac was full of people. He was waiting. We’d told Denon to make sure he was last off the plane. I did not engage until it was clear the principal was in mortal danger.”

At that, Xander leaned forward, caution forgotten.

“I didn’t shoot until I saw his finger go for the trigger, Mr. Lawhon. I wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood for the fun of it. That’s not how I roll.”

Lawhon watched him for a moment. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t believe you would. So here’s the deal. We’re going in with a justifiable homicide claim. You were protecting your boss, whose life was in danger, who hired you to look after him. I think that will fly, no problem. If not, we’ll take it up with the judge. He’ll see reason.”

“Jesus, this isn’t going to go further than this, is it?”

“You mean to arraignment and a trial? I hope not. It’s going to be up to Grant how far he wants it pursued.”

“Then let’s get him in here and I’ll give a statement. I’m ready to talk, to explain my side of things. I can’t sit here anymore, pretending all is well with the world.”

“First, we need to talk about a media strategy.”

“What?”

“Regardless of how this goes down, Xander, you’re going to be the lead at the top of the hour on every news channel in the country. Your name and image will be put out there. Like the cops sitting outside this door, half the people will want to congratulate you, half will want you prosecuted. Unfortunately, it’s the latter half who are the most vocal. So we need to be prepared. I want you safe, out of harm’s way and out of a jail cell.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“Good.” Lawhon smiled again. “Now, tell me everything.”

Chapter 16

Georgetown University Medical School

THE MOMENT THEY were given the go-ahead, Fletcher and Sam got into his car and made the short drive to the Georgetown University campus. The dean of the medical school, Dr. Nate Simpson, and Sam’s immediate boss, Dr. Hilary Stag, were waiting for them in the dean’s office.

Hilary looked genuinely upset; the smile lines around her usually merry eyes were set and grim. The dean looked no better—a happy, rotund man with a white goatee and wire-rim glasses, Sam had always thought he looked a bit like Santa Claus, minus the red suit, but this morning he was frowning and dour.

What, exactly, had Tommy Cattafi done?

After the introductions were made, Dean Simpson settled down to business. “No sense beating around the bush. If Cattafi survives, and I do hope he does, despite all of this, you can ask him yourself what he was up to.”

Hilary crossed her long legs. She was wearing sheer hose that made a shurring noise each time she moved. “He was found in the gross anatomy lab, Samantha. In a state of undress. One of the corpses had been...interfered with.”

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