You're an idiot to come back. Who cares if you're wearing jeans and a sweater that smell like hamburgers and fries? You'll be back in Washington soon enough.

This was nuts. I'm smart and I'm fast, so shut up! Anna pressed her Glock against her leg and refused to sweep it around her as she walked to her front door.

She heard something, something like a branch dragging on the ground, and froze in her tracks. Then nothing. She didn't fumble with the keys, in and open, and she had her back pressed against the wall next to the door, her breath coming fast, and for a crystalline instant, she was back in the abandoned warehouse in New Orleans that was really a meth lab where she'd seen her first and only firefight. You came through that, didn't you? You stayed focused, didn't lose your nerve, even though, admit it, your hands were clammy with sweat and fear, and your heart was beating a mad tattoo. You did okay; you did great.

She'd never before been so spooked, so close to having her control shatter. It was humiliating.

Would Griffin be scared?

No, he wouldn't. She wouldn't, either. She'd get a grip.

Sure enough, no one was hiding behind the mop in the kitchen pantry. Nothing had disturbed the meager lineup of shoes in her closet, and she heard no quiet breathing that wasn't her own. She opened the bathroom door and turned on the light, the white tile glaring back at her. Her heart skipped as she remembered Delsey finding Arnie's body behind her shower curtain, his blood trailing into her bathtub. She stared into the bathroom mirror at the pasty white face of a woman running too close to the edge. She stood there and changed that woman's face into her own, strong and sure and ready to kick big b.u.t.t. She heard a car engine, heard fast footfalls coming toward the front door.

Griffin was here. There was a loud knock on the door, and his steady, sane voice: "Anna?"

Washington, D.C.

Monday evening

It was way past Sean's bedtime, but since Delsey was a new chapter in Sean's life, they'd let him stay up, even microwaved a bag of popcorn. Savich watched Delsey clean the b.u.t.ter off Sean's fingers as he confided in her how his future wife, Emma Hunt, could play the piano nearly as well as his mama. He was going to make sure Emma had a big grand piano so she wouldn't regret marrying him, and maybe Delsey wouldn't mind playing it, too?

Savich grinned as he leaned down to pick up stray popcorn from the kitchen floor. He liked Griffin's sister, the Trouble Magnet, and so did his son.

Jimmy Buffett sang out "The Pina Colada Song" on Savich's cell. Savich met Sherlock's eyes. They both hated late calls because a lot of the time it meant bad things had happened, that their night with Sean was over. He was aware that Delsey was staring hard at him.

"Savich."

He listened to a hysterical Melissa Ivy screaming at him: "He's dead! Oh, dear G.o.d, Peter's dead!"

"Where are you, Melissa?"

"I'm in Peter's apartment. I just walked in and he's dead, do you hear me? He's dead!"

"Listen to me now, Melissa, I want you to call 911 and do as they say. Wait for the police. Tell them you called me. We'll be there as quickly as we can."

"What?" Sherlock said.

Savich punched in Detective Moffett's cell number as he said to Sherlock, "Peter Biaggini's dead. That was Melissa Ivy. She found him; she's at his apartment."

"Stony and now Peter? What's going on here? Oh, Delsey, this is about the Tommy Cronin murder. We've got another"-she gave a quick glance at Sean, who was all ears-"incident."

Delsey felt bile rise in her throat, gulped. "I'll take care of Sean." She looked down at the little boy, who was still staring at his parents. "Do you mind staying with me, Sean, while your parents go out and take care of some business?"

Sean thought about this as he watched his father punch in a number on his cell.

"Do I have to go to bed?"

"Not yet. Let's play some Hot Dogger. I'm good, really good at skateboarding, Sean. I can skateboard with the best of them." Hot Dogger, Sean had told her, was like the real thing.

"We only got Hot Dogger a week ago, but Daddy said I'm already a champion at it."

"We'll see. You ready to put your thumbs where your mouth is, Sean?"

"I want to play until Mommy and Daddy get home."

Delsey smiled back at Savich and Sherlock, nodding.

On the third ring, Savich heard a low p.i.s.sed-off voice. "Yeah? Moffett here. I'm not on call."

"Sorry, Detective, but I need you."

IT TOOK THE PORSCHE only seven minutes to reach Peter Biaggini's upscale apartment building at 322 Willard Avenue. Sherlock had put Mr. Maitland on speakerphone on the way, and he'd nearly flatlined at the news, and finally said he would notify Mr. August Biaggini. "Keep him away from his son's apartment, sir, please," Sherlock said.

"Yes, I will. I'll call Director Mueller, too. Guys, this can't be happening. Three kids are dead, three promising young men. Three! And here I thought Peter Biaggini was behind Tommy Cronin's death, that you were looking hard at him. Who's responsible for this? We've got to put a stop to it, Savich."

There were four cop cars with their running lights on in front of the apartment building, and two plain Crown Vics. A dozen people were already milling around in the street, wondering what was going on. Savich pulled in behind Detective Moffett's big black SUV. He must live close to be here so quickly.

Savich's first thought upon entering Peter Biaggini's apartment was that Daddy must have laid out a bundle for this place-it was s.p.a.cious, lots of windows. There was a single posh bra.s.s number spelled out on the door-Three. When you walked through it, you entered a large entryway that seemed to boast of s.p.a.ce by wasting it. Large windows that had to mean lots of light and gorgeous wooden floors led your eyes to a kitchen out of the next century.

They heard sobbing from the living room, but didn't stop there. They walked to the master bedroom at the end of a wide hallway. The three cops near the doorway stepped aside. Detective Moffett said, "Not a pretty sight."

Peter Biaggini, twenty-two years old, lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of his king-size bed, on his back, his head and face a mess of gore. Blood splattered the pale gray bedspread, the gray leather easy chair, had even spewed in an arc high on the bedroom wall. His green cashmere sweater was soaked in his own blood, his blue jeans streaked with it, even down to his black sneakers. His bloodied cell phone lay on the rug next to his arm. And beside his cell lay a highly polished old Bren Ten.

She looked up at Moffett. "The murder weapon and the killer left it beside him. Just walked over and dropped it. Leaving it here smacks of a professional, but the chances of that are highly unlikely."

Moffett said, "You'd better believe the killer wiped off the prints, and you can bet there'll be no registration. It looks old, maybe 1970s. We'll check it out."

Savich said, "I wonder why the killer didn't take the pistol and dump it in the Potomac."

Sherlock went down on her knees beside Peter Biaggini's body, fighting sadness and regret, trying to focus. She felt a moment of nausea, swallowed several times. She would have laid her hand against his cheek or his forehead to see how warm he was, but he didn't have a cheek. There was so much blood in a human body. She touched her hand to his throat instead, feeling the sticky wet of his blood. She said, trying her best to keep her voice flat, "He's still quite warm. I'd say he'd been dead only minutes before Melissa got here. When the doorbell buzzed I'll bet Peter thought it was Melissa, so he opened the door without checking, or else he knew the person who killed him. When he saw the gun, I'm thinking he turned and ran, but his killer was right behind him. He would have slammed the bedroom door, locked it? Dillon, could you see if the door's been damaged?"

Savich said, "There's no lock on the bedroom door, no need to shoot it open or slam into it. The killer opened it, and Peter turned to face him, his cell phone in his hand, only he didn't have time to call 911." Savich leaned down, carefully picked up the black cell phone beside Peter Biaggini's right hand to check his calls.

Sherlock sat back on her heels, careful not to touch anything else. She looked around her. "When the door flew open, Peter looked at his killer, maybe he was begging for his life, but it didn't matter, his killer shot him twice in the head from no more than six feet away."

Sherlock got to her feet, stared down at Peter Biaggini. "What a waste, what a horrible waste." And she thought, Peter, you poked at the wrong lion this time. This lion wasn't twenty years old. He didn't run away; no, this lion ate you.

Savich said, "His last call was to Melissa Ivy forty-five minutes ago. I'll get Ollie started on the rest of this call history."

Sherlock stared around the room. "Peter's death-it makes no sense. We have to start fresh, Dillon, look at all our a.s.sumptions. Tommy, Stony, and Peter-they were friends most of their short lives. They had to be involved in something more dangerous than they knew, with people they shouldn't have been." She looked down once more at the ruin of Peter Biaggini. "They were in over their heads."