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  The woman stepped forward. “Detective Chutimant.”

  “Similar to your vic?”

  The detective nodded. “The injuries are almost identical. My vic’s were worse, though, if you can imagine that.”

  Jade could. She’d witnessed the worst man could do to his fellow man. Woman, too. Evil was not a trait attributed to only one gender.

  Standing, she glanced around the parking lot. “Who found the body?”

  “A cyclist,” Briggs said. “He does a twenty-mile ride every day before work. Got a flat tire and pulled off the trail to fix it. Spotted what he thought was a gym bag. When he came closer, he saw the body and the blood and called us from his cell phone.” To Jade’s unanswered question: “Clothes, fingernails were clean. No blood on him. All the cars registered to him are in his driveway.”

  From Christian: “You think the vic was killed somewhere else?”

  “Believe he was dumped here, yeah,” Briggs said, “but don’t know for sure, yet.”

  “Could’ve rented a car,” Dante said.

  The ringing of a cell phone pierced the stillness of the morning. Everyone present with the same ringtone checked their phones. Each of them shook their heads, as they realized it wasn’t their phone.

  The ringing continued.

  The officers looked at each other and then one by one down at the body.

  “Ignore it,” Briggs said.

  “Answer it,” Jade said.

  A crime-scene technician knelt and removed the phone from the victim’s pocket, handing it to Briggs.

  “This is Lieutenant Briggs, US Park Police. Who’s this? . . . Hello?”

  Jade walked away from the group. Christian and Dante followed.

  “The Talk Show Killer is dead,” Christian said.

  She waited for the plane overhead to pass. All three of them swiveled their heads to watch it land.

  “Maybe someone wants us to think he’s still alive,” she said. “Let’s go check out his—”

  Dante grimaced. “Do we have to?”

  Jade was already heading to the coroner’s van.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Washington, DC

  “The Wizards are going to win it all this year.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  Christian wiped his mouth with the napkin clenched in his fist, chewing hurriedly to make his point. “We have a true point guard who can also score, and a big man who can carry twenty points, ten rebounds every night. Two pieces of the puzzle we’ve been missing.”

  Perched on stools at the counter of a small sandwich shop near the Bureau, they were enjoying a late lunch, the shop empty except for them. Jade and Christian weren’t regulars, but came often enough that the proprietor pounding a slab of meat behind the counter recognized their faces. After viewing the victim’s severed penis, Dante begged off lunch and headed back to the office, declaring a loss of appetite.

  She lowered her voice. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” She scouted the restaurant to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “I own some Anacostia swamp land. Can sell it to you real cheap. Great for condos.”

  He chomped, confidently, and swallowed. “You’ll see.”

  Her phone vibrated. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Harrington.”

  “Agent Harrington, Lieutenant Briggs again. We got a positive ID on the vic. Name’s Nicholas Campbell.”

  “Hold on.” Jade snatched the pen Christian held out to her. She grabbed the first piece of paper she saw. The one her sandwich was wrapped in ten minutes ago. “Go on.”

  “Age: sixteen,” Briggs continued. “A sophomore at William Randolph Secondary School in Fairfax. Parents said he never came home last night.”

  “Did they report him missing?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they knew from TV the police didn’t start searching for missing persons for at least forty-eight hours.”

  She stopped writing. “Seriously?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I’m on my way to interview the parents now.”

  “Thanks for the update.”

  “No problem.”

  Jade clicked off.

  Christian took a bite of his second sandwich. “What’d he say?”

  She relayed Briggs’s side of the conversation. Christian’s chewing slowed. He swallowed hard.

  “My son, Mark, goes to Randolph.”

  “Huh.”

  “So did my nephew, Tyler.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Washington, DC

  Whitney wrapped up her speech to over fifty local business leaders in a meeting room at the National Press Club. When she finished, the applause was polite and respectful, but unenthusiastic.

  Because they realize what’s coming.

  During the campaign, she had promised to fix the nation’s crumbling infrastructure, which would cost money. These businesspeople knew where that money would have to come from.

  The response to her recent speeches was different from the frenzied, rock-star-like reception she had garnered as a candidate. She felt like a bride who, after a fairy-tale wedding and an idyllic honeymoon, learned that marriage was work and harder than anticipated. Lingering at the podium, she answered a few questions from the reporters in the audience.

  “Judy,” she pointed at the auburn-haired, middle-aged reporter who had accompanied her on the presidential campaign trail. A year ago, Judy had broken the news—to her and to the world—about Grayson’s indiscretion. She had long since forgiven Judy, an old-school journalist doing her job. She wasn’t the one who’d had an affair. Whitney had forgiven Grayson, too, although she hadn’t forgotten. She stayed with him not for what he’d done wrong, but for all the things during their long marriage he had done right.

  “Madam President, your one hundredth day in office is tomorrow. How would you grade your performance so far?”

  “I’m glad someone is keeping track. Thanks, Judy.” She waited for the laughter to subside. “We haven’t accomplished as much as I would have liked. I didn’t expect a Congress so . . . uncooperative. I would give myself a C. But I was a good student, and never settled for anything less than straight As. I won’t settle as president either.”

  She answered a few questions from other reporters when her eyes alighted on Blake Haynes. She couldn’t help smiling. “Mr. Haynes?”

  “Madam President, does the federal government plan to respond to the protests occurring throughout the country?”

  “We are monitoring the situation carefully and will plan our response accordingly.”

  After several more questions, she let Josh McPherson usher her toward a side door.

  “Madam President.”

  She turned to see Blake Haynes standing there, a huge smile on his charming face. Josh’s muscular body closed almost inconspicuously toward Whitney’s, his eyes cutting from Blake to her.

  “It’s all right, Josh. Give us a moment.” The Secret Service agent moved a few paces away, standing under a ceiling light that highlighted his brown pate.

  Blake approached her. He offered her his left hand. She shook it.

  “Ah. A lefty.”

  “Us lefties—literally and figuratively—must stick together,” he said. “It’s been a while. Since the inaugural ball. I never got a chance to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For my show. The network gave it to me based on our interview.”

  “Glad to be of help.”

  “Perhaps, we can help each other.”

  She tilted her head.

  “I was there,” he continued. “In Palo Alto. Watching you speak to a bunch of Silicon Valley execs. After Beyoncé’s performance, you had me at ‘I should have delivered my speech first.’”

  “Shouldn’t that be ‘you had me at hello’?”

  “I like to be different. In any case, I want to return the favor. Another interview. Now that you’re president. All softballs. Promise. Just li
ke last time.”

  “But can I trust you?” she teased.

  “Of course you can. I’m a good ol’ Catholic boy. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He made the sign on his chest.

  She needed some favorable publicity. She glanced over at Josh. She would be late for her next appointment. Every hour of her day was scheduled. Every minute.

  Holding out her hand, she said, “I need to run, but I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  He held her hand. “Income equality.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Income equality. That is your legacy.” He stared into her eyes. “Let me help you.”

  Whitney masked her surprise as she turned away.

  How did he know?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fairfax, Virginia

  They strode up to the predominately brick Fairfax County police station. Christian hustled to the glass door first and opened it for Jade.

  “We’re here to see Lieutenant Chutimant,” she said to the officer sitting at the front desk.

  As they waited, she glanced around the gleaming lobby. No prostitutes or drunks sat waiting in chairs, pleading their case to anyone who would listen. The atmosphere was quiet, purposeful, almost businesslike.

  The detective strode toward them in an off-the-rack blue business suit.

  “Right this way,” she said.

  They followed her through the metal detectors down a hallway of modern décor.

  In her office, she waved to the guest chairs in front of her desk. “I’m not much for small talk.”

  “Neither am I,” Jade said.

  “I am,” Christian said. Jade shot him a look.

  Chutimant typed several strokes on her keyboard before turning the computer monitor to face them.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Zach Rawlins.”

  The crime-scene photo showed a massive quantity of blood pooled beneath the boy’s head. Like Nicholas Campbell, the boy found in Gravelly Point, Zach Rawlins had suffered extensive damage to the left side of his face. Jade let out a breath. TSK was dead. His involvement in this crime, impossible. Still, it was unsettling. The two boys’ injuries were similar to the injuries inflicted on TSK’s victims.

  “Vicious,” Christian said.

  Jade continued to survey the photograph. “Severed penis?”

  Chutimant nodded. Christian grimaced.

  “Look at his face,” Jade said. “Bruises and scratches just like Nicholas Campbell.”

  “And Tyler,” Christian said, his voice soft.

  “Who’s Tyler?” asked Chutimant.

  “My nephew. He also went to Randolph.” He swallowed. “He . . . died . . . recently.”

  “Oh. He’s your nephew.” An expression, sympathetic and fleeting, passed over Chutimant’s face. She wrote something down.

  Christian blew out a breath. “Three deaths at one school in such a short time. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s not,” the women said at the same time. Jade didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Chutimant continued, “Zach and Nicholas played on the baseball team.”

  “What!” Christian glanced at Jade.

  “So did Tyler,” Jade said to Chutimant.

  A moment of silence hung over them.

  “What else?” Jade said.

  “Not much. Zach was sixteen. Worked out in the weight room that night with some of his teammates after practice. We interviewed them. The last one left at eight p.m. that night. Zach was still there. The coroner estimated TOD between seven and ten. The father arrived home from work at around ten. Found his son in the grass near a BMW. The kid’s car. Driver’s door open. Overhead light off. The mother was in the living room watching TV. If she’d only looked out the window, she might have seen who did this to her son.”

  “Or prevented his death,” Jade said.

  “She wasn’t worried he hadn’t come home from school, yet?” asked Christian.

  “Apparently not. Zach sometimes stayed out until eleven. His curfew on school nights.”

  “Weapon?” Jade asked.

  “A blunt instrument,” Chutimant said. “Could’ve been a baseball bat.”

  Jade pointed at the computer. “Can you enlarge it?”

  Chutimant hit a few keys. Jade leaned in to view the autopsy photo. “Any signs of struggle?”

  The lieutenant shook her head. “Nothing under the fingernails, except boy dirt—”

  “Hey!” Christian said, in mock indignation.

  The detective smiled before sobering. “No defensive wounds on his arms—”

  “He was ambushed,” Jade said.

  “Pretty much,” Chutimant said. “The coroner believes the bruising and scratches on Rawlins’s face pre-existed the murder.”

  Jade sat back in her chair. “Would you mind if we talked to the parents?”

  Chutimant handed Jade a slip of paper before she’d finished the sentence. “I thought you might ask. I’ll email the case file to you as well.”

  Jade looked down at the address.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Fairfax, Virginia

  CHRISTIAN WHISTLED. “NICE . . .”

  She agreed. The subdivision’s long, winding roads were laid out like lazy ribbons. The meandering journey through Zach Rawlins’s parents’ neighborhood felt like a nostalgic Sunday drive.

  Expansive yards separated McMansion-huge houses. Jade could never afford a house like this on her government salary, even if—when—she became the first female director of the FBI. But that was okay. Money wasn’t her thing.

  They pulled to a stop in front of the garage. Unsullied, the yard displayed no signs of police tape, investigation trash, or trampled grass. Not even a makeshift memorial honoring the victim. You wouldn’t have known a murder of one of the home’s occupants had occurred here a week ago.

  She scanned the surrounding neighborhood. “Not many streetlights.”

  “Probably gets real dark here at night,” he said.

  She knelt in the yard, and ran her hand in an arc over the grass. A person lost his life here. A child.

  She stood and walked with Christian to the front door. He rang the doorbell. A man of medium height and weight opened the door. A former athlete, by the way he carried himself.

  “Mr. Rawlins, we’re Special Agents—”

  “Come in.” Turning, he walked deeper into the house. Christian looked at Jade and shrugged. They followed Zach’s father past a staircase leading to the second floor and down a hallway into a spacious room. Broad windows afforded a view of the backyard with a swimming pool and tennis court. She also spotted a batting cage. A weak evening sun tried to force its way into the room.

  “I’m George. My wife will be down in a minute. Drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Sit,” he said, pointing to the sofa.

  A visceral reaction exploded within her. “We’re not dogs, Mr. Rawlins. We’ll stand.” Christian smirked, and moved to lean against the wall near the window.

  Rawlins raised his hands in mea culpa. “I apologize.” He motioned his hand to the sofa. “Please.”

  She glanced at the overstuffed sofa and chose a modern chair instead. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Rawlins?”

  “I’m the vice president of logistics for the Visix Corporation, headquartered in Reston. We’re one of the world’s biggest shippers and distributors of petroleum products.”

  “I believe,” she said, “you generated one billion dollars in revenue last year and earned the largest profits in corporate history.”

  Rawlins blinked and then nodded. “You do your homework.”

  A slender, light-brown-haired woman glided into the room. Her pointed chin, elevated at a thirty-degree angle, was preceded by her arm, extended as she walked toward them.

  “Hello. I’m Vanessa Rawlins.”

  The couple sat apart on the sofa, just out of reach of each other.

  “Mrs. Rawlins,” she said, “I appreci
ate your taking the time to meet with us. We’re here to ask you some questions about your son.”

  “Zach was a good boy. He did well enough in school. In baseball. At least, he was popular.”

  “He didn’t work hard enough, if you ask me,” George Rawlins cut in. “Could’ve started on varsity as a freshman last year. I started as a freshman in high school. It’s not that hard. You just need to put in the work.”

  Christian sat in the matching chair to Jade’s. “Was your son having any problems? Maybe, at school? Teachers? Girlfriends?”

  Mrs. Rawlins shook her head before he could finish. “No, everyone liked Zach. He was handsome and outgoing.”

  “A lot like me.” Mr. Rawlins’s laugh came out like a bark.

  “What about friends?” Jade said. “Teammates?”

  “He got along with everyone,” Mrs. Rawlins said. “Teachers, administrators, friends, teammates. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  He must have had one. Jade kept that thought to herself.

  Mr. Rawlins looked at his wife. “Which means he wasn’t trying hard enough. When you’re the best, you’re going to pick up enemies along the way.”

  “If he didn’t have any enemies,” Jade said, slowing her cadence, “who do you think did this to him?”

  Vanessa Rawlins opened her mouth to answer and then closed it. After a moment, George Rawlins said, “Random. Must’ve been a random killing. My son was in the right place at the wrong time.”

  “What about security? Do you have cameras?”

  “Been meaning to tighten security. Infrared cameras. An invisible fence. Maybe a couple of pit bulls. I just never got around to it.”

  “Did your son get along with Nicholas Campbell and Tyler Thompson?”

  “Nicholas was his buddy,” George Rawlins said. “They all played JV baseball together. Zach and Nicholas started. Tyler sat on the bench. He was enthusiastic, but didn’t have any skills.” His eyes watered. “It’s not fair. Zach had so much potential, while that loser Tyler—”

  Christian clenched and unclenched his fist, slowly. Jade raised her hand from her lap, palm down, signaling him not to react.