"She lives in Georgetown. Her mother is a lawyer now, but she served in Afghanistan with Eddie and Perry. Perry used to tell me about her, her name is Maggie. She drove one of the supply trucks. They saw her all the time. She was their friend. But she and Eddie were really close. Eddie got her pregnant. Perry disapproved. He thought it was wrong, what Eddie was doing. So he was going to report him. Maggie got sent back to the States, and three days later Perry was dead. Eddie killed him to cover up his affair with Maggie."

Susan wanted to vomit. This couldn't be true. It just couldn't. But that little girl-she looked a lot like Vicky.

Don't think about that now. Keep her talking.

"Did you kill Eddie, Karen? Did you kill Hal?"

Karen laughed. "Of course not. Why would I do that?"

"You're the one waving the gun around."

"No, no. It's not me. Maggie killed them. Hal and Eddie, they were cutting her off. They couldn't keep giving her money. And Eddie refused to leave you for Maggie. She was furious. And so she killed them both."

When Susan found Maggie Lyons, she was going to kill her personally.

The teakettle began to whistle, a sudden piercing shriek. Startled, Karen turned toward the noise. Susan grabbed the empty wine bottle from the counter and swung with all her might.

She connected squarely with the back of Karen's head. There was an audible crunch, a dull, wet smack, and Karen went down on the floor. Susan could tell the blow had knocked the woman unconscious.

"Thank G.o.d."

She didn't even feel bad about it. She turned off the stove, grabbed the gun and her keys, and tore out of the kitchen to the garage. She got in the car and locked the doors, sent the garage door up and pulled out of the house.

As she drove away, she picked up the phone to dial 9-1-1, then hit the off b.u.t.ton. What was she going to say? The police would make her go back to the house, and all she wanted was to go to Eleanor's and make sure the babies were okay. And what if she'd really hurt Karen? Then she could get arrested, and the girls would be without a mother and a father.

No, there was only one thing for her to do. She needed to take the notes she'd found in Eddie's office to Sam, let her decode them. Then they might have an idea of what really happened.

She reached for her phone again as she took the left turn that led out of the neighborhood. That's when she heard the breathing. And everything went dark.

Chapter Forty-Two.

Washington, D.C.

Detective Darren Fletcher

The song was right. Waiting was the hardest part.

Fletcher sat in silence with Sam and Ginger, Hart's wife, plus a host of other officers in and out of uniform, waiting to hear how Hart was doing. He'd been in surgery for an hour. Fletcher was worried, but Sam had a.s.sured him it would all be fine. He sipped his coffee and said prayers to a G.o.d he hadn't talked to in years: prayers of thanks, prayers of forgiveness and prayers of revenge. He couldn't help himself on that last, it just slipped out among all the other holy speak and thank-yous, and he knew better than to try and take it back. He was a realist. He figured G.o.d would punish him more for being a hypocritical liar than speaking from his heart.

He and Sam had been interviewed multiple times by the investigating detectives, around and around the mulberry bush. He gave them everything he could think of, which wasn't much. Sam had even less; she'd been hidden in the car for the majority of the shooting, only feeling the terror build instead of facing it down. At least he'd been doing something.

Fletcher's arm ached. It had gone through so many different sensations tonight he wasn't sure where to start. Hot, cold, numb, on fire. The bullet had torn through the fleshy part just below his biceps, thankfully missing bone and artery, just hollowing out a furrow through the thin flesh. He'd never been shot before. It hurt. A lot. It was not something he highly recommended.

Thank G.o.d it was his left arm and not his right. They'd cleaned, sewn, bandaged and slinged the arm, and it was utterly useless. If it had been his right, he'd be in a d.a.m.n sight of trouble.

He was in trouble, anyway. Roosevelt was furious with him. He didn't blame the man. He'd f.u.c.ked up. They should have just charged in and arrested Taranto, made a scene, but the subtle approach seemed like a better idea. He'd gone and talked to Culpepper again, looked at some more files on employees, looked at the visitor logs. Nada. Culpepper was genuinely torn to pieces about his former men's deaths. The day had taken its toll. The awe-inspiring Patton-esque man Fletcher had met was gone. When he'd spoken at Donovan's funeral, he was still the commander, a forceful presence for his troops, but outside of the spotlight he'd finally broken down, turned into a brokenhearted b.u.t.tercup. A brokenhearted b.u.t.tercup who had the paperwork to prove he was in Iraq when both Donovan and Croswell were shot, officially taking him off the suspect list. After Fletcher's third fail out at the Raptor headquarters, Taranto seemed like the only viable lead.

He had told Fletcher a little bit about Whitfield, though. Enough that Fletcher had formed a plan of attack. He needed to squeeze everything he could out of Taranto, then head to western Maryland and see if they could put eyes, and hopefully hands, on Alexander Whitfield.

But Taranto refused to speak to them. He wanted to talk to Sam. As did Whitfield. Everyone wanted a piece of Sam Owens. And bless her, she'd been more than willing to help.

Now look at them. Bloodied, beaten, raked over the coals and impatiently waiting to hear if Hart would live or die.

Ginger caught his eye and smiled, hopeful, grateful. He didn't deserve her grat.i.tude. Jesus, she should have pummeled him with her fists, cursed him with her tongue, shot daggers from her eyes. Instead, when she got to the hospital, the first thing she did was envelop him in a hug so big he felt lost in her arms, and told him how much she loved him, and how much Lonnie loved him, too.

It was f.u.c.king sloppy police work that had gotten Hart shot. Sloppy, shoddy and ridiculously off the book. Fletcher was going to take a major hit. Part of him was glad. Maybe now he'd get off homicide. He hadn't done enough to be relieved of duty altogether, but he might be forced to ride a desk until retirement.

He'd do it. He'd do it without raising a stink.

Just as soon as he figured out who killed Edward Donovan and Harold Croswell, and scared William Everett into shooting his mother and killing himself.

Though his mind was a bit blurry from the painkillers they'd given him while they patched him up, he ran through their remaining suspects again.

Alexander Whitfield should be at the top of the list. He had the skills, means and opportunity to pull all of this off. You don't get to be a sniper in the Rangers without a dead eye, and Whitfield had operated overseas long enough to know a few tricks when it came to communication.

But Whitfield seemed to be trying to help, not hurt. Fletcher needed to find the man and talk to him before he could cross him off the list.

The second was Maggie Lyons. According to Taranto, Maggie had a child with Perry Fisher. That would be an easier claim to prove, if she hadn't scooted out with her kids in tow. There had been no activity on her credit cards, no phone calls to her parents or ex-husband, nothing to the schools. She just went poof. She, too, was weapons trained, fully capable of killing a man. According to her jacket, she'd done that once already, in an ambush outside Fallujah, when she laid down suppressive cover fire while Donovan and Fisher pulled a few troops to safety. She had three kills to her name, and a Bronze Star for bravery she probably kept hidden away, where no one could be reminded of its impetus.

The third was Karen Fisher. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. From what Taranto said, she was upset about the infidelity, and had found out her husband might have been killed by friendly fire. Now that they had Taranto's information, Fletcher really wanted to sit down with Culpepper again, but it would have to wait seventeen hours minimum-the man was back on a plane heading to the desert. Croswell had been cremated, and the inurnment in Arlington National Cemetery's Columbarium wouldn't be for another week. Culpepper was coming back for that ceremony, but Fletcher believed in his heart this case was getting close to a finale. A week would be too long.

Fletcher rested his head back against the wall. He was still missing something. The pages from Donovan's diary sure would be a help. And now he had a broken wing to hinder him further.

Roosevelt came into the waiting room. He was always a stern-looking man, but right now he looked downright forbidding. Fletcher caught himself swallowing, hoping his boss didn't hear the audible gulp. This wasn't good news. Fletcher straightened.

"Hart?"

"He's fine. Miss Ginger, they're asking for you down the hall."

"Oh, thank G.o.d," the woman exhaled, practically flying out the door. Fletcher felt the wind leave his body. Sam reached over and touched him on his good hand, and he tossed one last bit of thanks upward before facing his boss.

Roosevelt sat across from them and eyed Fletcher and Sam.

"That reporter you were talking to? Gino Taranto? Just fished him out of the Potomac, with a third eye."

"Oh, my G.o.d," Sam said.

Fletcher just asked, "Where'd he go in?"

"No idea. But he didn't last long outside your meeting with him." He turned his focus onto Sam. "We need to go over it again. Every little last detail."

Fletcher smiled for the first time all evening. "We can do you one better. We have it all on tape."

A rotund nurse with a crew cut and jangling gold earrings came into the waiting room.

"Is there a Detective Fletcher here?"

"That's me," Fletch said, standing.

"Your partner is asking for you."

"Go on, then," Roosevelt said. "We'll handle this in a minute."

Fletcher gave Sam an apologetic look and went with the nurse. Hart was four doors down, in a private room. Everything smelled oddly clean, antiseptic. A machine hissed air into his lungs. Hart was pale, but at least his eyes were open. Ginger moved from her vigil at his bedside and let Fletcher take her place.

"Fletch." Hart mouthed the words. The doctors had done a temporary tracheotomy; they had a hard time intubating him with the trauma to his throat. He couldn't make sounds, but could make himself understood.

"Dude, you gave me a scare," Fletcher said. "Did you see who shot us?"

Hart shook his head, a tiny movement. "You okay?" he mouthed.

"Yeah. 'Tis but a flesh wound."

His Monty Python impression worked, Hart smiled.

"Really, I'm fine. Don't worry about it. You just heal up. I'm gonna get whoever did this to you. I promise."

Hart just closed his eyes. Fletcher gave his hand one more squeeze and stepped away. Ginger gave him another hug.

"Be careful, Fletch."

"I will. Call me if anything changes, okay?"

"Of course. Be good."

Good.

If he found the man who shot them, and the opportunity arose, he would kill him.

Chapter Forty-Three.

Washington, D.C.

Metro Homicide

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam tried not to yawn. It had been an exhausting day, and it was now two in the morning.

The disk Taranto had given to her was confusing, at best. It seemed to be a video taken of a nighttime military raid, but it wasn't marked. She had to a.s.sume it was Afghanistan. The video had been shot through night vision from above the scene, probably from a Predator drone or Apache helicopter. The screen was grainy and bobbing, and looked something like a video game crossed with a science-fiction movie. Globs of green-shaped soldiers moved through a blackened backdrop, five of them, spreading out in a fan, converging into a single file line, then stopping. Friendlies. Two blobs headed off on their own while the remaining three stayed stationary. Then one blob stopped moving, and its partner walked off in a totally different direction, looping back to the main group. As he got close to the cl.u.s.ter of soldiers, there was a sudden scramble and flashes of light from the right, which Sam took to be shooting. Pandemonium looks the same through night vision as it does in daylight. People started running all over the place, traces of light shot through the air. The single blob on its own didn't move again, didn't engage in the firefight. It seemed he'd gone down before the shooting started.

The whole video took forty minutes. It gave Sam a vicious headache, trying to decipher what was happening. But she, Fletcher and Roosevelt agreed: this had to be the friendly fire incident.

It was going to take a bunch more research to find out what was going on, that was for sure. Inquiries were being made at DOD, but it was going to take some time to get people to talk. If the Army had covered up this incident, they would hardly parade out and tell what really happened, not without a lot of pressure from multiple sources. Taranto had put in a FOIA request, but DOD could take months to comply, and now that the requesting party was dead...

When the video was done, they'd dissected it to death, and Roosevelt had left for the night, Fletcher brought her a cup of coffee.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

"I have no idea, outside of the obvious. That lead soldier went down before the big firefight took place."

"Right. Problem is, this video has no identifying features. Nothing that can tell us when or where the shooting took place. It could be a complete fake for all we know, doctored, anything. Without Taranto to tell us what we're looking at so we can at least pressure DOD... It's going to be hard to get the info from them, anyway. Not like they're going to say, 'Oh, hi, you're looking for this? Be our guests, here you go.'"

"Not only that, it could be of another situation wholly unrelated to Donovan and Perry Fisher."

"You're right."

"How's your arm?"

Fletcher sighed. "Honestly? It hurts like absolute h.e.l.l."

"Did you take the painkillers the E.R. Doc gave you?"

"No. I'll never stay awake."

"You need some rest. Why don't we head home and start fresh in the morning?"