Fletcher pointed over his shoulder to the Federal-style brick town house across the way.

"But that's Mrs. Emerson's place. She's in France for the spring and summer."

"So the house was vacant?" Fletcher asked.

"It's supposed to be. She travels quite a bit. A widow. A merry widow. George Emerson, that's her husband, died three years ago. She's been lonely, says travel helps."

Fletcher shifted and she realized she sounded like an idiot. That wouldn't do.

"G.o.d, I'm sorry, I'm babbling. Maybe this man was a friend of hers. She's had a string of boyfriends. Amazing, really, a woman of her age keeping that pace."

"He might have been a bit young for her," Hart said dryly. "Do you have contact information for Mrs. Emerson?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't. She has a housekeeper, though. She'd probably have all that."

"Regular housekeeper?"

"Yes. Daily when she's home, weekly when she's out of town." She smiled apologetically. "Sure would be nice. I work full-time, trying to make partner, and with the three kids, and Roy... Well, things are a bit of a mess."

"You know when the maid was here last?"

"Um." Maggie thought about it. "Yesterday morning, maybe."

"This is a nice neighborhood," Fletcher said.

"Yeah, it is. I've lived here my whole life-my parents left me the place when they pa.s.sed. But it's not the kind you'd expect people to be murdered in."

The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn't done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids' screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.

"Listen, I've got to go. It's my daughter's birthday, we're having cake. Is there anything else?"

Fletcher shook his head. "No, ma'am. Here's my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time."

She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They'd be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative... No. Better to keep them in the dark.

She dropped Fletcher's card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.

She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.

She'd read about Donovan's death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?

The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?

The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.

f.u.c.king past. She was never going to escape it, was she?

Chapter Ten.

Washington, D.C.

Detective Darren Fletcher

The door to the house closed behind them, and the sun popped from behind the clouds, dumping warmth and brightness on their shoulders. Fletcher slid his sungla.s.ses out of his breast pocket, put them on against the sudden glare.

Hart put his notebook away and sighed. "So. Make that thirty people who didn't see a thing. Either they're all telling the truth, and this killer's a ghost, or someone's lying."

"Or they didn't see anything out of the ordinary, which means we need to be looking at suspects that fit into this neighborhood's profile in particular."

They walked out to the street.

Fletcher glanced back at Maggie Lyons's house.

"Hey, Hart. Was it my imagination, or did she flinch when I said Croswell's name?"

"Mmm, I don't know if I'd call it a flinch. But she did react."

"Yeah." Fletcher let that run through his mind. "We should probably find her ex, see if he knows anyone that matches Croswell's description."

"Look into her, too?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Don't overstate it or anything. So, Fletch, what's next?"

Hart looked tired. He and Jimenez had been canva.s.sing all morning. Fletcher had only joined up for this last house so he could drag Hart with him to the notification.

"We go to Falls Church and see Croswell's wife."

"Super. Can't wait." He yawned widely and Fletcher did his best not to follow suit.

They grabbed coffee at the Starbucks on Wisconsin. Fletcher had worked on the task force that investigated the triple murder case there in '97. Talk about a town losing its innocence. He was a green detective then, partnered with a lumbering guy named Jim Kennedy. Kennedy taught him most of what he knew about homicide investigation. Kennedy had dropped from a ma.s.sive coronary in 2004. He missed him.

Traffic was starting to build, the morning rush hour already under way. Luckily they were going against traffic-the vast majority of commuters were trying to get into the District, only a few were driving out to the suburbs. Most of those workers took the Metro, anyway, which was easier, cheaper and much, much faster. Like New York, D.C. was a walking city for those who lived in its borders. D.C. parking operated on a sliding scale of seniority and importance-the daily ho-hum dwarves and environmentalists took the Metro, the midlevel management and government workers carpooled, paying through the nose for monthly pa.s.ses to the parking lots, which weren't overly plentiful. Those who garnered a bona fide parking permit were on the high end of the feeding pool, able to drive by themselves into town, park at a premium spot and parade into their buildings, high on self-importance and exhaust.

For the thousandth time, Fletcher wondered why he'd chosen to set down roots in D.C. of all places-the most impermanent, intransigent, imitation place in the world. Teeming with tourists and power-hungry suits and senseless deaths, he sometimes lost sight of the city's beauty, the fact that his parents met, married and loved there, the fact that the food was on par with any city in the world, and the sports weren't too bad, either. He'd spent the past fifteen years in a small row house on Capitol Hill, a surprisingly quiet street kitty-corner to the Longworth Building. In his tiny front yard was a sculpture of an angel that he left in front of the recycling trashcan. He liked the way the white marble reflected off the blue plastic. It reminded him of why he was a cop-harmony and beauty marred by rubbish.

He'd had a string of women in and out of the house-some staying longer than others-though he always managed to chase them away. He had an ex-wife, too, and a son who he didn't get to see nearly enough, since his son's b.i.t.c.h of a mother had managed to convince a judge that it wasn't safe for the boy to be alone with his gun-toting homicide detective father for more than one weekend a month. Fletcher hadn't helped the situation at the beginning by having to reschedule regular days because of crimes, and Felicia had taken full advantage of that. She wanted to move away, had finally convinced the judge that it would be better for Tad to be in another, cleaner, quieter environment. They'd made the move to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, last year, and Fletcher saw even less of his only child. By the time he was free to spend time with the boy, Tad would be grown and stressing over a family of his own.

His ex wouldn't speak to him outside of the grunted h.e.l.lo if they accidentally saw each other during their infrequent child exchanges. And now that Tad could drive, Felicia never came near him. She hated him with a pa.s.sion.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Felicia was right-he was poison. He wasn't a good man. Good men didn't cheat on their wives and stay out late with strangers. Good men didn't drink too much scotch and lose interest in their chosen career paths. Good men didn't- "Earth to Fletch."

He glanced to his right, where Hart was pointing to the light. "Buddy, light's green. Has been. Where the h.e.l.l were you?"

"Felicia."

"Ah. Enough said. Let the self-flagellation continue. I'll stay quiet."

He flipped Hart the bird. "Sit and spin."

Hart did his best breathy Marilyn. "Oh, Daddy, can I?"

They both started to laugh. Count on Hart to drag his a.s.s back from the doldrums. He really needed to think about taking that prescription the station shrink gave him at his last annual evaluation.

"Sorry, man. I'm just tired."

"Join the club. I think that's it on the right."

The house was a standard rambler, brick on the bottom with blue siding and a carport to the right. This area of Falls Church was established, heavily treed, an older neighborhood. Three houses down a McMansion preened, full of itself and its newfound glory. Land was at a premium in D.C., so folks were buying smaller, older houses, razing them and building huge manors. Safe neighborhoods became safer, property values started to rise and folks like the Croswell family, in their comparatively tiny '70s bungalow, were either going to get on board, or get out of the way. Life has a way of marching on, whether you want it to or not.

Inside the chain-link fence, two miniature schnauzers showed off, frolicking in the dewy gra.s.s. The family was up. Fletcher wondered if they were missing their patriarch yet, if they had a sense that things were wrong. Or whether he was about to blindside yet another family.

G.o.d, sometimes he really hated this job.

They parked and went to the door. The bell wasn't working, so Fletcher knocked. Knocked again. A woman answered, small, brown-eyed, dressed in scrubs, briskly rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

"Oh. I appreciate you coming by, but we have our own religion." She smiled sweetly and started to close the door. Fletcher put his foot in the crack to stop her and held out his badge.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. Detective Fletcher, D.C. Homicide. My partner, Detective Hart. May we come in?"

She stared at him, the look he'd grown so accustomed to. Denial, fear, hate, worry, all crowded into a single glance. He could see her mind whirling.

"Is it Hal?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, ma'am. Please, can we come in?"

She swallowed audibly and nodded. Dropped the towel at her feet, opened the door all the way for them.

"Living room," she managed, pointing. "I'll be there in a second. I must... The baby."

She disappeared around the corner. Fletcher nodded at Hart, who followed her, saying, "Ma'am? Mrs. Croswell? Let me help you."

Fletcher heard the woman stumble, curse and fall, was glad Hart was there to catch her. Denial. The first step down the tumbling path called grief. She'd tried to run away from the news, as if not talking to them would make it all just go away.

Hart led her back into the living room, got her seated on the couch. "Kids aren't up yet," he said to Fletcher.

"Ma'am, we need to ask you some questions. But first, is there anyone we can call to be with you?"

She was mumbling, whispering almost to herself, and Fletcher heard, "Sister. Number. Refrigerator."

Hart took off for the kitchen, and Fletcher got Mrs. Croswell to focus on him. She was slipping into shock-too upset even to cry.

"Ma'am, when was the last time you heard from your husband? Where was he supposed to be last night?"

She was having a hard time focusing. "Denver. But you're with Metro. Was it a heart attack? Before he got on the plane? He texted me that he was getting on the plane, would call in the morning. I go to bed early."

"No, ma'am. It wasn't a heart attack. He was found in Georgetown. I'm sorry to say he'd been shot. Do you have any idea why he would be there? Why he would lie about where he was supposed to be?"

"He never lied. Hal never lied to me. We always told the truth."

Obviously not. Fletcher scratched his forehead, rubbing at the headache that was trying to take hold. Hart came back in the living room.

"Sister's on her way."

Croswell's wife was starting to grasp the situation, and her lips were trembling. Hart had brought water back from the kitchen with him. He handed the gla.s.s to Mrs. Croswell.

She drank, greedily, then set the gla.s.s on a coaster. Neat and tidy. Her eyes grew vacant.

"Mrs. Croswell?"

She snapped back to Fletcher, the words spilling out, frantic to be heard.

"Betty. My name is Betty."

"Betty, do you or your husband know anyone by the name of Emerson? George or Tina Emerson?"

Her eyes were still blank. "No. Hal went to Denver for a conference yesterday. A reunion. His old army buddies were getting together at some aeros.p.a.ce thing. A few of them work for Lockheed Martin now, they were trying to get Hal in front of their bosses. He's been in and out of work since he got back from his last tour of Iraq. He mustered out two years ago. He had a rough time over there."

"Was he injured?"

"Not on the outside, nothing that wasn't healable. It was..."

She broke off, and Fletcher knew immediately. They'd seen this on the force, with the soldiers who'd returned to their jobs.

"PTSD?" he asked.

She bit her lip as if not wanting to betray a secret, then it all came out in a flood of words and tears.

"Yes. Flashbacks, and insomnia. Rage. He gets angry with me for no reason. But he's been so much better this past year. He's on medication. He's been seeing a counselor, one outside Veterans Affairs. She's really helping him. He's getting so much better."

Present tense. That always killed Fletcher. At what point was it acceptable to start thinking about your husband, wife, son, daughter, sister, brother, mother, father in past tense? Never, and that's when the guilt started its all-consuming fury.

It was also a valuable tool he used to divine relationships to homicide victims. The loved ones who immediately went to past tense needed a closer look. They almost always were involved. Their minds had already made the leap to a world that didn't have the person in it anymore.