"I'm sorry to have to share this news with you over the phone, but we've found William Everett's body. He appears to have committed suicide."

"Oh, dear G.o.d. Another?"

"Yes, sir. My condolences."

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Fletcher waited a few moments before speaking again.

"Colonel? I'm sorry, but I need to go. Again, please accept my deepest condolences on your loss."

"Yes. Thank you. Please, if you find anything..."

Fletcher could swear he heard tears in the old soldier's voice. He didn't know why that felt wrong, somehow.

"Of course," Fletcher replied, and hung up. He called Hart next, told him the developments and asked him to come back in. Hart didn't mind. He said he'd meet him in an hour downtown.

Fletcher made a few calls, initiated some checks on Culpepper's background, but still had some time to kill. And he was right around the corner from the Croswell crime scene.

That whole thing seemed hinky to him. The 9-1-1 call on Croswell's murder was done anonymously, from a prepaid cell phone. Croswell's cell phone also had a call from a blocked number, at 6:50 p.m. on the day of his death. And Donovan had received a call, too. If Fletcher was a betting man, he'd say the same disposable phone made all three calls, but it was going to take time to prove that theory.

And so far, they'd been unable to tie Croswell to the Emerson house. Calls to Mrs. Emerson had yielded exactly squat. She'd never heard of Harold Croswell. She was horrified that a murder had happened in her house, was winging her way home to deal with the crime scene cleaners and the rest of the craziness that ensued. She was being incredibly cooperative. Fletcher's instincts said she was telling the truth.

So why there? What was so important about that house?

Someone must have known that it stood empty.

Yesterday, when Fletcher and Hart had recanva.s.sed the neighborhood where Harold Croswell was murdered, there were more people gone than home. Maybe at this time of day, there'd be a few folks around who might have seen something.

It only took five minutes to drive to the scene of the second murder.

The sun was going to set shortly. Pink clouds edged in gold billowed through the sky, and the street was bathed in a rosy glow. Children played on the sidewalks. Parents stood in front of the town houses, keeping a close eye on them while catching up with the neighbors. It was a cozy little scene, one that immediately became curious. Stares followed him as his car rolled down the street. By now, everyone who lived nearby knew that a murder had been committed just a few houses away. It had to be unnerving. He was counting on that to loosen some tongues.

He pulled up in front of a knot of people two houses away from the Emerson place.

A slightly overweight man with a noticeable monk spot walked over to the car as Fletcher exited the vehicle.

"Oh, good, you're here. That was quick."

"Detective Darren Fletcher, Metro Homicide. There's a problem?"

"Uh, yeah? We called about Roy."

Roy?

"I'm sorry, sir. I was coming to the neighborhood on another matter. What seems to be the issue?"

The man pointed across the street. Fletcher recognized the house-he and Hart had talked to the woman the morning of the Croswell murder. Oh...that's right. He searched his memory for the name, but the neighbor jumped in and gave it to him.

"Roy Lyons. He's camped out on poor Maggie's porch. Roaring drunk, from the looks of it, and he keeps yelling at the door. We told him she wasn't there, but he won't listen. This has happened before." The tone of righteous indignation almost made Fletcher smile. Almost.

"Well, let me go talk to him and see what his problem is. Thanks for the heads-up."

"Certainly." The man turned back to his friends, and they all watched Fletcher walk across the street. He could feel their eyes on him.

Fletch could smell Lyons from five feet away. He reeked of old booze and damp cigarettes. Sweat mingled with the miasma. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He had the look of a former athlete gone to seed.

"Mr. Lyons? Is there something I can help you with?"

The man's eyes rolled Fletcher's way. He didn't move from his slump. His words were slurry. "Get the b.i.t.c.h to open the door, that's what."

Fletcher pulled out his badge. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step off the porch. Can you come down here so we can talk for a moment?"

"I ain't going nowhere. I gotta talk to Maggie."

"The neighbors say she isn't there."

"They always say that. She's there. I saw the cake on the table. The brat had a birthday. I can't believe she lets my sons near that b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Fletcher felt a moment's alarm. He remembered Maggie Lyons now. Lawyer. Said her husband was a deadbeat, and her kid was having a birthday. But that was three days ago.

"Near who, sir?"

"Jennifer Jill." He sneered the words, the anger in his voice palpable. "I ain't paying jack s.h.i.t for that brat. It ain't mine. b.i.t.c.h cheated on me. Wants to go to law school, she says. Wants me to pay for it. Raise the brat. f.u.c.k that s.h.i.t."

The logic of the very inebriated was sometimes hard to follow. Fletcher tried again. "Mr. Lyons, could I ask for you to start at the beginning? I'm afraid I don't have the background information on your ex-wife."

Lyons closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. They were still relatively unfocused, and his words were even more slurred.

"Fine. It's a short enough story. I was here taking care of our family. Our house. Keeping the roof over our heads. She came back knocked up. Simple as that. I divorce her sorry a.s.s, can prove adultery, but she gets the kids. And they make me pay her. I told 'em, h.e.l.l no. I ain't paying for some other dude's kid. So they garnishee my wages. Now I'm out of my money, and I'm about to be out of a job. I need to talk to her, make her see reason. I can't pay for my own apartment."

Fletcher felt comfortable enough to take his hand off his weapon, and leaned against the porch. The man was blindingly drunk, enough to fall if he stood, and Fletcher was reasonably confident that wasn't going to happen any time soon. He'd had enough practice with drunks to recognize one about to keel over. And this was interesting information. A less threatening stance might yield more.

"Sir, could you be more specific? Mrs. Lyons returned home from where?"

"Afghanistan, dumb a.s.s. She's rolling in dough, gets that military pension and s.h.i.t."

Fletcher's mouth dropped open.

"Your wife was in Afghanistan?"

"Yeah. She was in charge of present...present...presenting... 'Scuse me." Lyons pulled himself to a semistanding position and vomited over the side of the porch. Fletcher pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose in disgust. Good grief.

When he'd finished, Lyons straightened and held on to the railing for balance. "So you shee, I need to get in and talk to her. She's rolling in dough, and I got nothing. And she needs to know I ain't paying jack for that brat."

And with that last valiant proclamation, Lyons's eyes rolled back in his head and he went down in a heap on the porch. Pa.s.sed out cold.

Fletcher checked his pulse, put a cushion from the chair under his head and knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Lyons? Metro Police. Open the door. It's safe."

Nothing. Crickets. Literally.

The people down the street were watching him with interest now.

He tried the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. He reached down and felt for Lyons's pulse, found it strong and steady. The man wasn't in immediate danger, then. He called in to dispatch, explained what was happening, asked that an ambulance be sent to the address to cart off Roy Lyons, and a backup patrol officer, then walked around to the rear of the house.

There was a nice garden back here, with a pretty little deck covered in potted plants. He walked up on the deck, peered into the kitchen and witnessed exactly what Roy Lyons had alleged: four plates on the table, surrounding a half-eaten birthday cake.

Except Fletcher knew that cake was three days old.

Exigent circ.u.mstances. He used a branch to break the gla.s.s pane near the k.n.o.b and opened the French door from the inside. He didn't smell anything noticeable, which slowed his heart rate only the slightest bit. He made a pa.s.s through the house. Prayed he wasn't going to find Maggie Lyons and her three kids lying dead in their rooms.

They weren't. The house was clear. He didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. He chose anger. It looked like someone had left in a hurry. Probably right after they'd rolled away.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

Fletcher went back out on the deck and kicked the potted plant closest to the door. What an idiot he was. Maggie Lyons had lied right to his face, and he'd seen it. He'd seen her flinch when he mentioned Harold Croswell's name, even as she denied ever hearing of the man. d.a.m.n it. He'd even made himself a note to check her out, then gotten dragged off in a different direction. Now, three days later, he finds out she was in Afghanistan, too? No way that was a coincidence.

He returned to the front of the house. The ambulance was coming down the street. Fletcher caught the eye of the man he'd been talking to when he first arrived, signaled for him to come over. Monk Spot hurried to him, happy to be of service now that the situation had gotten more interesting.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Frank Wright."

"Mr. Wright, you said you told Roy Lyons Maggie wasn't home, is that right? You knew that definitively?" Wright, right. Is that right, Mr. Wright? Good grief, he was starting to sound like Dr. Seuss.

"Yes, sir. She and the kids left the same day you were here for the murder across the way. Like she was taking them to school, but they had bags. Bags bigger than what the kids normally carried. They were brown. Looked military. And her little girl was crying."

Fletcher eyed the man. That was an awful lot of detail. "And you just happened to notice this why?"

Frank Wright blushed. "Well...Maggie's a hot piece of a.s.s. You know how it is."

"So you're stalking her?"

"No." Wright had the audacity to look upset. "Not at all. I just like watching her. She's pretty, that's all. I was out on my porch watching the brouhaha and noticed her leaving. She's a friend. Don't make it sound so dirty."

"You didn't talk to her, did you? Ask her where she was headed?"

"No."

Fletcher just shook his head. "Thank you for your help, sir."

"You aren't going to mention this to my wife, are you?"

Fletcher tossed a glance over his shoulder at the man and didn't answer. Let him sweat.

He flipped open his phone and called Hart.

"We're going to need a warrant for 67435 N Street. Computers included. And everything we can find out about Maggie Lyons."

Hart was quiet for a moment. "The chick from the Croswell scene?"

"Lonnie, you've got a memory like a steel vault. The very one. I stopped by to see if some more people were at home, had a nice chat with her very drunk ex-husband. She served in Afghanistan. House is empty, but no signs of a struggle. That's too close for comfort. She's moved pretty high up my suspect list now. I'm going to go talk to some more of the neighbors, see what I can get about her. Hurry, okay?"

He hung up and realized he was smiling. Two hours ago, he had no leads. Now he had two, and maybe three. Sometimes, he really did like being a cop.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

Arlington National Cemetery

Dr. Samantha Owens

White marble gravestones marched in perfect unison for thousands of yards across the undulating green hills of Arlington. Sam had never been inside the gates before. She'd seen it, no one could drive by without seeing it, but being there was more than overwhelming. All these men and women, dead in the service of their country. All of them dead and lost, and so often, their sacrifices simply forgotten. It boggled the mind, especially when she thought about the fact that this was simply a fraction of all the deaths. She wondered what they would do when they ran out of land, and then quickly prayed that day would never come.

The noises that accompany a military funeral are different than those of civilians. Clicking, tapping, the unified march of soldiers' feet as they escort the horse-drawn limber and caisson that carries the flag-draped coffin. The snap of the ceremonial flag as it's raised from its last spread and precisely folded into a crisp triangle. The three-volley shots fired in the ultimate last salute, cracking through the still air. The haunting, solitary loneliness of the bugler in his red cap, the song of the night, of the dead, "Taps," mournfully flowing from his pursed lips. The sobbing, accompanied by soft, inadequate words of comfort. Through all of that, the meticulousness and timing were flawless. As if emotions could be contained by perfection, tradition and stoic discipline.

Seeing the world Donovan had left her for-the pageantry, the una.s.sailable honor-for the first time was eye-opening, and did help a.s.suage her grief, in a way. It was nice to see them show him such respect. To see the throngs of people out to honor their fallen comrade. To get a glimpse of the ceremony with which he served. The vast majority of the men in uniform around her had the distinctive yellow-and-black Ranger tab on their left shoulder. A line from Shakespeare floated in her head: "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers..."

Brothers in arms.

She knew Eddie's life in the military had been hard. She knew how much pain and suffering went into his preparation, and how even the difficulties of the elite training for Ranger school couldn't have possibly prepared him for the realities of war. That was something you had to experience to fully grasp. Words on the page couldn't do it justice. PowerPoints and lectures from combat veterans couldn't do it justice. Training that left you sweating, delirious and starving in a Florida jungle or atop a north Georgia mountain couldn't do it justice. Only truly being in the fight-seeing blood spill from a wound, feeling the dead weight of an unconscious man on your back, watching a leg or arm be blown off, or watching a Bradley fighting vehicle catch on fire after being hit with an RPG, its occupants stuck inside, feeling hot bullets whizzing by your head turning your guts to water, screams of pain and fear-that, that could give war its due. As could putting those soldiers in the ground.

And as a leader who also had medical training, Donovan was faced with the worst of the worst. He had to charge forward and pa.s.s by the dying and wounded on both sides as the battle raged around him, focus on keeping his men alive and accomplishing the mission. Sam imagined that's why he sometimes disobeyed protocol and worked on his own people; being a doctor, even one who dropped out of school, the desire to help was ingrained into your being.

The reality of war was this: men and women laid down their lives. Willingly. Knowing that each day might be their last. It was a kind of courage that was unfathomable to most people. And it never seemed to end. Sadly, Donovan's interment was one of twenty-seven scheduled for the day, on the low end of average for Arlington. And they were just one military cemetery.

Some asked what was the point? There is no real reason for our soldiers to die in foreign lands.

Sam was no apologist. She'd tell them straight out that the sacrifices made allowed us the freedom to demand those answers. That liberty wasn't universal, and that all free men and women deserved the same power to question as we do. She believed in what Donovan did. Believed it in her soul. Maybe that's why she never fought for him, never tried to get him to stay. He was a good and honorable man who would make sure to defend his country with all of his being, even if it meant laying down his life to do so. She didn't fight the breakup because she respected his cause too deeply.

The honor guard who acted as the pallbearers committed themselves well. Sam couldn't imagine how taxing it must be for those young men, knew they competed long and hard to become the deads' witness. Even the horses had a certain dignity, as if they knew how vital they were to the process. The Donovans' priest stood to the side as people Sam didn't recognize spoke words of glory and humility, all of them bathed in a white glow from the sun's reflection. Sam couldn't get "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" out of her head; stood there silently singing "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah" over and over and over instead of washing her hands.

The red roses on the wreath by the coffin were like drops of blood against the white marble and green gra.s.s backdrop.

Sam had stepped back from Eddie's family when they arrived at the grave site, was out of eyeshot, watching. Trying to cope with the tearing grief that coursed through her veins as the ceremony proceeded. She wiped tears from her eyes and pushed her sungla.s.ses higher on her nose. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She thought Susan was handling herself beautifully. She had Vicky in her lap, was holding Ally's hand. Her head was high, the pride in her husband and his accomplishments visible. She was strong. Sam envied her that strength.