He opened the refrigerator, found the remnants of a Cinnabon he'd neglected to finish and tossed it in the microwave. He didn't want to think about how old the pastry was. Sipped on the coffee, leaned against his counter. Ma.s.saged his stiff neck.

Military.

A war hero carjacked in Southeast. A PTSD mess shot in Georgetown.

Connected?

Naw.

The microwave dinged. He pulled the slick wax paper out, dumped the half-eaten and very hot bun onto a paper plate, and carefully gnawed.

Military.

Hmm.

He set the plate on the counter and went to his office. Flipped open the laptop. Searched the obituary for the carjacking victim, Edward Donovan.

The obit wasn't vague, that was for sure. He'd served his last tour in Afghanistan in the 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company.

Fletcher had managed to remember to charge his cell when he came in, zombified from his all-nighter. He didn't use a landline anymore-what was the point? He speed-dialed Hart, who answered on the third ring.

"I'm sleeping. Go away."

"What unit did Croswell serve in?"

"f.u.c.k I know?"

"Humor me."

Fletcher heard groaning, then sounds equating movement-sheets ripping back, feet on the floor, heel strikes on the teak hardwood Hart's wife had insisted they pay extra for that their Labrador's nails tore to shreds in a week. Fletcher hated to say I told you so to Hart-it wasn't his fault. He'd had to capitulate to the wife. That's what you did if you wanted to stay married during a renovation. In its favor, the teak had looked nice at the beginning.

Page flip. That would be Hart's notebook.

"The 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company. Served last in Afghanistan."

"f.u.c.k me."

"Really, I'd rather stick it to Ginger. She's got better equipment for that. Prettier than your nasty-"

"Shut it. The carjacking last week? Guy was in the same company."

Hart was quiet for a second. "Uh-oh."

"That's what I thought. I'm going in. See if there's a ballistics report on the Donovan case yet. I'll flag Croswell's to be compared."

"Without a weapon..."

"You got a better idea?"

"No. You really think they're connected?"

"Who knows? But I got three hours of sleep, sunshine. I'm raring to go."

Hart groaned. "I'll meet you there."

Chapter Fifteen.

Washington, D.C.

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam scrubbed up after Donovan's post, feeling vaguely uneasy. The rest of the morning had gone smoothly-no surprises. The gunshot wound to the right temporal lobe had crossed through his brain and lodged in his left ear ca.n.a.l, causing an unbelievable path of destruction along the way. His poor, beautiful, brilliant mind, shredded and destroyed. The bullet had certainly caused his death.

But the lungs were vexing her. How did he get fresh sand in his lungs? Eleanor hadn't mentioned that he'd been back to Iraq. She supposed it made sense-after all, he did work for a defense contractor now. But the fact that he'd been within the week before he died nagged at her.

Nocek saw her out with a promise to get the ma.s.s spectrometry on the sand ASAP, and took her cell number in order to call with the results. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to get their answer-Sam a.s.sumed the sand would be a biological and ecological match to Iraq or Afghanistan. Wherever he'd been in the past week. Wherever he'd snuck off to and lied to his family about.

She needed to find out where he'd gone. And why he'd want to hide that fact from everyone.

She slid behind the wheel of Eleanor's Mercedes and turned over the engine. Let the cool air-conditioned air flow over her. She'd come d.a.m.n close to losing it inside the morgue. Too close. She knew the minute she let things come out she'd be broken forever. If she could just hold it together a little longer. Just get through the next few days, then she could go back home, to her rote little life, and continue on.

If her existence could be called living.

A living h.e.l.l, perhaps.

She thought of Susan Donovan then, and her heart broke. No one should have to know how it felt to lose the one you love. Sam wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy.

Focus.

Donovan.

Sand.

Lungs.

Shot.

Why him? What was it about his car, at that particular moment, that had drawn in some crooked stranger? He'd obviously not gone along with the plan, fought back in some way. Which would be typical of Donovan. Though she'd seen no bruising, nothing that indicated a struggle. So it wasn't a physical altercation. She imagined that the man had drawn a gun and asked for the car, Donovan had refused and the suspect had shot him.

That didn't work. If they'd had words, the window would be down. So why was there gla.s.s all over the body?

Besides that, who had sent the note to Donovan in the first place?

Too many questions. She needed to speak to the detective in charge of the case. Eleanor had given her his name, as well: Darren Fletcher.

Sam pulled out his card and dialed the number.

After three rings, a rough, abrupt voice said, "Speak."

"Fine, then. Woof."

The man started to laugh, a genuine, infectious sound, and she smiled to herself. At least she still had a sense of humor. Not everything had been taken from her.

"Nicely done. Who is this?"

"Dr. Samantha Owens. I'm a forensic pathologist, and chief medical examiner for the state of Tennessee. I've just done a secondary autopsy on Edward Donovan. I'm told you're the detective of record on the case."

He paused for a moment, measuring his next words. She imagined him thinking why the h.e.l.l he was being asked this obvious question, and if answering in the affirmative was going to get him into a world of hurt. She heard an exasperated sigh.

"That's right. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to go over your case notes, if I may."

"And why is that, Dr. Owens? Do you have something new for me?"

A stronger note of aggravation in his tone now. She had no time for posturing. She'd dealt with plenty of cops in her day, knew exactly what tone to take in return.

"He was still shot to death, if that's what you're wondering. Listen. Humor me. I flew all the way up here from Nashville as a favor to his mother."

He heaved a sigh. "Fine. When do you want to meet?"

"Right now. If that's possible, of course."

"By all means. I have nothing better to do."

She poured on a tiny bit of Southern. "I know you're terribly busy. I won't waste your time, I promise."

"Fifteen minutes. M Street. You know where we are?"

"I'll find it."

He hung up.

Well.

Her next call was to Eleanor, who answered on the first half ring, completely breathless. Sam felt guilty. Eleanor had been waiting all morning for news. She should have called her first.

"Sam?"

"Hi, Eleanor. We're finished."

"Did you find anything?"

Sam imagined Eleanor sitting at the counter in her pristine, gaily decorated kitchen, an untouched teacup at her elbow, waiting, so alone, for Sam to call. She didn't want that.

"I did. Why didn't you tell me Eddie was overseas recently?"

Eleanor paused for a second, then said, "Because he wasn't. He hasn't been back for three years. He'd never go willingly, either. He despised that place. Why in the world would you think he'd been back over there?"

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Do you want the details?"

"Please, Sam. I didn't ask you up here for tea."

"He had fresh irritations in his lungs that mimics the scar tissue he built up from his tours."

It was Eleanor's turn to be quiet. "I'm confused. What does that mean?"

"There's a common phenomenon that's cropped up in soldiers who serve in the Arabian Peninsula. Because of all the sand, it's embedding in their lungs. Add to that natural situation the fact that the air over there is tainted-they burn their trash, computers, plastic-those things put chemicals in the air that people breathe, and you have a mess. Soldiers are coming home with asthma, bronchial conditions, the works. Eventually there will be a high incidence of lung and skin cancers in those who served. But in the here and now, with this finding in Eddie's autopsy... Forensically, it means that sometime in the past few days before his death, he breathed in sand. Tests are being run to determine where the sand came from. As far as the investigation into why he died, I have no idea. Not yet. But something isn't right."

She heard the tone in her voice, grimly determined. She was on the hook now. She couldn't walk away and let it rest. She was going to figure out who killed Eddie, and why. Eleanor must have heard it, too, because she began to cry.

"Oh, thank G.o.d, Sam. I knew there was something more to this."

"It's too early to know anything for sure, Eleanor. Once we find where the sand is indigenous to, we'll know much more. I'm heading over to meet with the detective on Eddie's case right now."

"You'll stay in touch?" Eleanor sounded old and weak. A lioness who's been guarding the den for too long without feeding herself, exhausted and famished.

"Of course. Why don't you lie down for a bit? Doctor's orders. I'll call Susan and let her know."

"Sam, why don't you let me."

Sam understood the question immediately. Susan Donovan wouldn't want to hear that Sam had been right.

"Of course. But then, a nap. Promise?"

She got off the phone and put the car into gear. Fletcher's office wasn't too far away. She wondered how much information he'd been holding back from the family. And what surprises that information held.

Chapter Sixteen.