Evidence. This was evidence. They shouldn't be touching this. This was an open threat.

"Eleanor, do you have gloves?"

"Winter gloves. Not the kind you're looking for, I expect."

She'd diminished in the few moments Sam had spent staring at the note. Gone from a strong, self-a.s.sured mother to a frail old woman. As if she knew that she was right.

Sam laid the note on the counter carefully.

"Where did you get this?"

"It's not mine. Eddie brought it with him to lunch. 'For safekeeping,' he said. He wouldn't tell me where he got it, or when, or what it meant, just asked that I keep it hidden. So you see, it couldn't have been random. I know he was murdered."

"Did you tell the police?"

"No."

Sam whirled on her.

"Why the h.e.l.l not? They need this information. This creates more than reasonable doubt that this wasn't a simple carjacking. You withholding the note..." She trailed off. She'd been about to say that withholding the note could have given Donovan's killer time to get away, but laying that blame on Eleanor wouldn't be fair. It was foolhardy, keeping the full truth from the police, but not life-ending.

Eleanor sat heavily on the stool. Her face was haggard.

"So he was murdered? It wasn't random?"

"Eleanor, I don't know. I can't say right now. But I'd like to get a chance to look at the autopsy notes right away, see if there's something they may have missed. What's the name of the detective working the case?"

Eleanor had prepared a file folder that had all the information Sam would need stowed inside. The gesture made Sam sad. Eleanor had spent years on the Hill as the legislative director to several Virginia congressmen and had hated retiring.

Old habits die hard.

She handed the folder to Sam. A business card was paper-clipped to the front.

"Darren Fletcher. And he seemed none too happy to be dealing with the case."

"Some cops aren't the most friendly, that's for sure. Tell me, what else did Eddie say about the note? Was he frightened? Annoyed? Secretive?"

"He just said he didn't want Susan seeing it."

"He didn't want me seeing what?"

Eleanor and Sam both jumped. A pet.i.te blonde woman stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, staring at them both.

Sam had never met Eddie's wife, nor seen pictures, but this had to be Susan Donovan.

"Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!" Two little girls ran into the room. Eleanor immediately dropped to her knees and gathered them to her bosom. Sam forced herself to swallow, stay still. Every muscle in her body fired. She wanted to run as far away from the girls as possible. She gritted her teeth and looked out the kitchen window so they wouldn't see the sudden tears in her eyes.

The pet.i.te woman came all the way into the kitchen, removed her sungla.s.ses. Sam gathered her self-control and met Susan's eye. She could see why she wore the gla.s.ses, despite the fact there was no sun to be seen. The woman's eyes were red and swollen, devoid of makeup, with dark circles underneath. On closer inspection, Sam saw her hair was dirty, unwashed for two, maybe three days.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

"I'm Dr. Samantha Owens. I am so sorry for your loss." Sam resisted the urge to stick out her hand, like they were at a social mixer.

She was glad she didn't. The woman gave her a quick, hateful glance.

"Oh. It's you. Our loss, don't you mean, Doctor? Considering how well you knew my husband."

"Susan," Eleanor cautioned. "Little pitchers."

That was enough to stop the woman's attack. She glanced at the girls. "Go watch TV in Grammy's room, okay, chickens?"

In the weary way of children who know the adults need to converse, they detangled themselves from their grandmother's loving arms and silently melted away. Sam had seen that resigned maturity happen with children forced to grow up too quickly many times before. It was as if Death knocked on their doors as he pa.s.sed and told them to behave, or they'd be next.

She tamped down her annoyance with Susan Donovan and tried again.

"Yes, he was my friend, too. But we hadn't spoken in years."

Susan regarded her warily, then dismissed her entirely, turning to Eleanor. "What didn't Eddie want me to see?"

Eleanor hesitated a moment, handed her the note.

Susan read it, flipped the page over, shook her head.

"What is this?"

"I don't know, dear. Something Eddie gave me for safekeeping."

"And you didn't tell me about it? You showed her instead?"

Her.

Sam nearly burst out laughing-when she was growing up, and her father was telling stories, he sometimes referred to Sam's mother as her. Laura would always retort, "Who's her, the cat's mother?"

The cat's mother.

"What's so funny?" Susan was glaring at her.

"Nothing," Sam said, sobered. "A memory, from my childhood. It's really nothing. Susan, truly, I am sorry. Eddie was a good man. He loved you very much."

"If you didn't talk to him in years, how do you know all that?" Susan was starting to look dangerous-ready to cry or scream, or fly apart at the seams. Sam recognized the look and realized she needed to tread carefully.

"Eleanor has been kind enough to share occasional updates with me."

Susan froze, unable or unwilling to acknowledge the perceived transgression from her mother-in-law. She changed the subject instead. "What exactly is it you plan to do here, Dr. Owens? Did my mother-in-law explain that I will not give my permission for a second autopsy? Professionals have done their jobs. There's already been enough damage to my family. We can't bring him back."

Sam turned on her medical examiner persona. She'd heard this argument too many times to count from a victim's loved one, usually in denial of a primary autopsy. "Don't you want the person who did this to see justice?"

"Of course I do. But knowing won't change anything. Eddie is still dead. Cutting him open again won't bring him back to life."

Sam understood that. She understood it more than Susan could possibly know. She tried another tact.

"I hate to mention this, but if he was murdered, and not randomly carjacked, you and the girls could be in danger, as well. Are you willing to risk their lives, too?"

"That's one h.e.l.l of a low blow. And the only person who doesn't think this was a carjacking is Eleanor."

"And me. This note feels real. And if Eddie was purposefully targeted, the danger to you and your family is a reality, Mrs. Donovan. Unfortunately, I see my share of violent crime. I've been a victim of it myself. So I understand that sometimes, when the primary target is neutralized, and the end game has not been played out, the ones closest to the victim are also at risk."

"You're just trying to scare me. You hateful woman."

Sam did laugh then, albeit humorlessly and briefly. "I may be. But when it comes to protecting your children, I trust that you can put your ego aside for one minute and think about them."

"That's enough!" Eleanor snapped. "We can't be squabbling like this. Susan, please. Let Sam do her job. Let's put all our minds at ease." Eleanor softened her tone. "At the very least, give your permission for Sam to look over the autopsy report and speak with the medical examiner. There's nothing intrusive about that."

Susan pulled at her ponytail. Sam could tell she was embarra.s.sed by her outburst. Susan struck her as a woman who didn't like to lose control. Sam understood that, too.

"Fine," Susan said at last. "Look at the notes. But after that, I trust you'll go back to your life in Tennessee and leave us to bury our dead."

She swept from the room, calling for her daughters.

Sam shared a long look with Eleanor. "You could have warned me that she hates me."

Eleanor began to tidy up their tea things.

"She doesn't hate you. She's just afraid of what you might find."

Chapter Nine.

Georgetown

Maggie Lyons

Jennifer was just blowing out the candles on her cake when the doorbell rang.

Maggie Lyons waved her hands over the table to dissipate the smoke, kissed her daughter on the top of the head and said, "Hold on a minute, sweetie. I'll cut it for you in a second. Let me just see who's at the door."

She tried to ignore the outpouring of cries followed by naughty laughter that emerged from the kitchen as she left, knowing full well the wolves had descended and there would be a mess when she returned. But that was fine. It was her baby's birthday, and they were all a little hopped up on sugar and excitement. By the time she got back, the boys would be covered in icing. As would the table. And Jennifer.

The porch light was still on. She'd forgotten; she flipped the switch into the off position. Through the beveled gla.s.s of the front door, she could see two men in suits standing outside. One was about six foot, with brown hair cut close to his head. The other was shorter, squat, a bodybuilder. His arms stood out from his body almost at angles.

Cops.

What had that fool done now?

She pulled the door open, frowning. The taller of the two nodded at her.

"Ma'am? I'm Detective Darren Fletcher. This is Detective Lonnie Hart. We're with Metro P.D. We need to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?"

She smiled in apology, slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her. She knew what this was about. Her jerk of an ex-husband, who had turned from a fine, upstanding young lawyer into a degenerate alcoholic who liked to bust her around when he didn't get his way. At least he was paying the child support again-though she knew his firm had garnisheed his future earnings to make that happen. They didn't need the scandal, wanted her kept quiet and comfortable so she didn't sue. Like she would-but that wasn't the point.

"Can we do this out here? I don't want the kids to hear."

"Sure." Fletcher studied his notebook. "You're Margaret Lyons?"

"Yes, I am." She heard the weariness in her voice. G.o.d, they had all fallen so far. "So what did Roy do now?"

Fletcher's eyebrows creased, and the shorter man, Hart, chimed in. "Who's Roy?"

Maggie leaned against the column. "My ex, of course. He's a frequent flyer with you. Gets delinquent on his support payments. Likes to get into fights. Isn't that why you're here?"

"Oh," Fletcher said. "This isn't about him. At least, I don't think so. It's about the homicide across the street."

"The what? Someone was killed? Here? Who?"

She straightened up and looked past the two men, finally registering the mult.i.tude of police cars that were parked down the street. Man, she needed to get some more sleep. How did she miss this? And she was shocked the kids hadn't noticed. Granted, they were all in the kitchen, which faced the garden, enticed with birthday cake, but one of the boys usually grabbed the paper for her in the morning. She glanced down. The paper was still on the porch. She felt a flash of anger.

G.o.d, Maggie, get it together. Someone's dead and you're worried about the kids' ch.o.r.es.

The detective was talking again. She tuned back in.

"Yes, ma'am. Happened overnight, sometime between two and four. We're just checking to see if you heard or saw anything strange last night."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who's dead?"

Fletcher looked at Hart, who nodded imperceptibly.

"His name is Harold Croswell."

Maggie felt the wind leave her body, an exhalation she hoped the detectives didn't notice.

She shook her head. "I'm not familiar with him. Where did this happen? I mean, which house?"