Veronica automatically looked down to check her watch, but of course they’d taken even that away from her. She looked at the clock above the door to the yard. Ten minutes until she’d be escorted to the dining room. She began pacing, slapping her arms to keep warm, and, as always, wondered what would happen now that she’d given Marsia up to the prosecutor for a reduced sentence.
Beautiful Marsia. Her lover, so smart, so talented, the one she’d believed would be with her forever. But she’d had to face it. Agent Savich was right—Marsia had manipulated her from the get-go. She’d drawn her in, lied to her, all the while professing her love, and Veronica hadn’t seen it. More likely, she hadn’t wanted to see it. She’d jumped like a fish to bait. All she’d seen was this brilliant, wonderful person who’d complimented her, told her how much she loved and needed her, would always need her. Blah blah blah. She’d been a fool, a blind fool. It sounded so trite. She hated being a cliché.
Marsia had no conscience. She lied fluently when she needed help getting what she wanted, no matter the cost to anyone else. Veronica had even killed for her, no hesitation.
Veronica accepted now that Marsia was a psychopath. It had never made sense to her, Marsia’s endless desire—no, obsession, a sick obsession—for wealth and her absolute disregard for anyone else. Veronica was thankful they were kept apart here, awaiting trial. The last time she had seen Marsia, she’d looked at Veronica sadly and shaken her head, nothing more.
Veronica realized she was hitting her fist against her palm. Stop it. It’s done. You’re going to testify against Marsia, and she’s going to stay in jail forever.
Yes, she would testify. It was the right thing to do. It was what she deserved. The prosecutor, a middle-aged matron who badly needed a makeover, had guaranteed Veronica a maximum sentence of ten years. Ten years? She’d be forty-six when she got out, with no friends and very little money, since most every dollar she had was already in her hotshot lawyer’s pocket. He liked to pretend he was the one who’d talked the prosecutor into the lighter sentence in return for her testimony, acting like he’d scored a huge win for her. Who cared? She’d testify, then do time in a minimum-security prison, without inmates like Angela there—at least that’s what her lawyer had assured her. And hey, he’d said, I got you only ten years! The prick.
The warden had warned her her life could be in danger, despite all his precautions. What precautions? The prison grapevine was high octane, he’d said, every tidbit, big or small, always got out in no time. Within hours everyone knew she’d turned on her partner and would be the star witness for the prosecution against Marsia Gay. She’d gotten nasty looks, but no one had confronted her, so far. The guards were supposed to keep a close eye on her, the warden had said, and maybe they had for a few days. Veronica tried to make sure she was rarely alone or without a guard nearby to escort her wherever she needed to go. Even when the door of her cell clanged shut behind her, she was still afraid, more so with each passing day. She had only one goal: to survive the night. She was being transferred tomorrow.
She looked again at the clock. Only two more minutes and she could go back inside. She looked blindly around, lowered her face into her hands, not to cry—there were no more tears, only the endless ache in her heart at what had happened, at what she’d done and couldn’t ever undo. Even when she got out of prison in ten years, she had no one left to care if she lived or died. How would she possibly live?
When her time was up, a guard escorted her to the prison dining room and left her at the door. He nodded across the room at another guard, who took one last look around the cafeteria and nodded.
Veronica stood a moment, frozen in the doorway, prisoners walking around her. She kept her head down, no eye contact with any of the other prisoners. She knew many of them condemned her for testifying against Marsia, the ultimate betrayal.
She smelled spaghetti sauce. She hoped some stingy meatballs were in the sauce but doubted it. She met the other guard’s eyes. He nodded to her and motioned her in. She squared her shoulders and walked into the cafeteria, chin high.
Ignore all of them. What they think of you doesn’t matter. You’ll be gone from here tomorrow. Eat your dinner. Go to bed. That’s all you’ve got to do.
25
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONTROSE PARK
R STREET NW
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Griffin tossed the neon green Frisbee toward Sean, who ran, jumped, and managed to snag it. The Frisbee was Sean’s birthday present from Marty Perry, and it glowed bright at night. Sean whooped, did a fast fist pump, and threw it to his mom.
Sherlock caught it and threw it on to Dillon, who plucked it out of the air, grinned at everyone, and waved toward the blanket they’d spread on the nearly dead grass in Montrose Park. Even so, it was a beautiful spot, wide open, perfect for whatever a kid would want to do.
Everyone was warm enough still, but Savich knew it wouldn’t last, and that’s why he’d had the idea to bring Sean to the park with them while they still had some sun. Savich knew all of them were tired and needed a bit of time to decompress.
Savich flipped the Frisbee to land on top of their ancient red-and-white-striped wool blanket, a witness to many a picnic. Everyone took a drink and a cookie. Between bites, Sean told them all about a video on YouTube about the best ways to throw a Frisbee. He took them through every single step. He told them the boy who made the video, Ellery, lived in Australia and could throw a Frisbee so far his friends spent days looking for it. “Even farther than you, Papa. I emailed him. I hope he’ll email me back, maybe give me some private pointers.”
Sean’s attention veered from the Frisbee when he saw a half dozen teenage boys throwing a football around twenty yards away, having a great time hooting and hollering. Sean walked closer to watch them, all the adult eyes on him. Savich said, “You’ve seen all the photos Pippa’s sent. She planned to go back this morning and question Mrs. Filly, but I haven’t heard from her. I reminded her last night to check in with me, told her again to be careful.” He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “She hasn’t called, and all my calls have gone to voice mail.”
“Dillon, call her again while Griffin and I pack everything up. It’s getting too cold to stay out much longer anyway.”
As Savich stepped away and pulled out his cell, he heard Griffin say to Sherlock, “You wanted to know about Jessie’s birthday party for her daughter. Picture a dozen eighteen-year-old girls, all laughing and talking and slurping down ice cream smoothies when Jessie brought me into the living room and yelled out, ‘Surprise, girls!’ All eyes turned to us. There was instant silence, not a single slurp, and then they rushed me. It was like a tsunami. I gotta say, though, the chocolate cake was delicious, pecans whipped into the chocolate frosting. Almost made it worth it.”
When Savich walked back, Sherlock was laughing so hard she was holding her stomach. Sean looked over, realized he’d missed out on something, and ran back to go down on his knees beside her. “Mama, what? What’s the joke? What did Uncle Griffin say?”
Griffin said, “Sean, I was telling your mama about a birthday party, and the chocolate cake, nearly as great as the one your mama served at your birthday party back in September. Here, let me show you some photos.” Sean was treated to photo after photo of girls he didn’t know, girls way too old to hold his interest. He paused at one photo. “Mama, I think Marty will look like her when she grows up.”
Sherlock looked at a young girl with an impish face, capped by spikes of black hair, tiny diamond studs in her ears. She didn’t look as mature as the other girls, more like a bud nearly ready to bloom. She didn’t look a thing like Marty Perry except for the wicked intelligence shining from her dark green eyes. You knew looking at her she was fun. Sherlock said, “Griffin, send me her photo, and we’ll show it to Marty, see what she thinks.”
Savich took a quick look at the girls’ photos and smiled at the one Sean had talked about. She looked clever and smart. He lightly poke
d Sherlock’s arm. “Would you mind packing up? I need to speak to Griffin. Sean, there’s one cookie left with your name on it.”
Savich and Griffin walked a bit away while Sean munched his cookie and helped his mother fold the blanket and close down the drink cooler.
Savich said without preamble, “I still can’t reach Pippa Cinelli, only voice mail, no answer to my texts. I think something’s wrong.”
Griffin said, “I can leave right now, Savich. Wait, Congressman Manvers said he had to go out for a meeting this evening, which means Rebekah would be alone. I know her assistant, Kit Jarrett, would stay with her, but is that enough?”
Savich shook his head. “You go watch over Rebekah. I’ll go to St. Lumis.”
Savich pulled Sherlock aside. “I’ve got to go see what’s going on, make sure Pippa is all right. Rush hour traffic shouldn’t be too bad on a Monday night. I’ll call you, keep you updated.”
Sherlock was as worried as Dillon, but she didn’t want to pile on. “Do you want to call Police Chief Wilde? He’s right there.”
“Not really. That last puzzle section with Major Trumbo hanging out the Alworth Hotel window, surrounded by flames? Until we find out what it all means, I want to keep this as private as possible.”
26
ST. LUMIS
MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON
When Pippa came to, she could barely breathe, then realized there was cloth stuffed into her mouth. She managed to spit it out and swallowed, trying to get saliva back in her mouth. She breathed in moldy, stale air—she was still in that derelict building. He’d tied her up, bound her wrists behind her back and her ankles and knees with rope, the knots strong and stout. How much time did she have before he came back? The man in the black hoodie? Who had he called? What had that person told him to do with her? If not kill her, then what? None of it made sense to her. She’d been in St. Lumis for less than two days. How could anyone know she was an FBI agent or even why she was here? Who would even wonder? Well, obviously someone did know, and it didn’t matter how. So why attack her? Surely whoever they were, they had to know killing her would only bring the full weight of the FBI down on their heads. What did they hope to gain? Did they think she’d found out who they were? But how? Maude Filly? Suddenly she was afraid Maude Filly had closed early yesterday because someone had forced her to. No time to think about that. Right now she had to get out of the building before Black Hoodie came back. She looked down at her wrist. Of course her iWatch wasn’t there. Smart. Savich could have used it to locate her.
Pippa started to sit up, felt a wave of dizziness and eased back down. She lay perfectly still. She wasn’t going anywhere until she got herself together. She remembered how she’d come to after the first time he’d struck her, but only for a minute. Her head still pounded.
She had to move more slowly, not take any chances. She lay there until she knew she shouldn’t wait any longer. She had to move, free herself, and ignore her pounding head. She was concussed, how badly she didn’t know, but now, at least, she wasn’t nauseated. Her vision was clear, and, best of all, she could move. And that meant she had a chance. Who cared about an aching head?
She had to get her wrists free. She tugged and worked the ropes, but there was no give. She had to find something sharp enough to cut through them. She looked out a high broken window. No more sunshine. How late was it? There was still enough light for her to see the rubbish and debris lying around her. She didn’t see anything sharp enough to cut through the ropes, except some small shards of glass scattered on the floor. Then she saw an ancient rusted hook half buried under a tattered pile of filthy clothes in a corner, several feet away. She inched slowly toward it, little by little, quietly, because she had no idea if Black Hoodie was nearby. Her hands brushed against the hook. It was at the end of a long wooden pole, decades old, probably used to hook the latches on the high windows to open them in the morning and close them for the night. The hook tip felt sharp enough to do the job. She backed onto the hook until she felt the blade against her wrists. Carefully, she played her fingers over it, adjusting her hands until the ropes were directly beneath the tip, and started slowly rubbing the rope across it. Eventually her hands cramped, and she had to ease off.
She started again but realized she was cutting her hands as well as the rope. She didn’t know how long she kept at it, but the room became almost completely dark as she worked the knots. When at last the rope gave, she pulled her hands apart and brought them in front of her. She couldn’t prevent a hiss of pain. Her hands were bloody and numb and hurt. She patted them on her T-shirt, raised them to the back of her head, and felt dried blood through her matted hair where he’d struck her. She didn’t seem to be bleeding now, and that was good. When she pressed against the wound slightly, she felt a jolt of pain. She stopped and breathed until the pain faded. It was time to forget about her head and her hands. She had to move fast now. She went to work untying the ropes around her ankles and knees.
Her hands were throbbing fiercely by the time she was free. She braced herself against a rusting shelf and slowly stood. She took a small step, felt a stab of vertigo, and stumbled. She caught hold of an old mildewed crate and breathed in deeply until the vertigo eased off. She stamped her feet to get the feeling back. She had nothing to wrap around her hands, certainly not the moldy rags scattered on the floor, so she’d have to be very careful.
Her cell phone, her Glock, and her wallet were gone. So was the small Glock 380 she kept in her ankle holster. She checked her jacket pocket. He’d taken her creds, too. He knew exactly who she was now, but of course he’d known she was FBI before he’d struck her down. She started to shake. She was so afraid, it threatened to sweep away any logical thought. This was her first time face-to-face with real danger, and she was alone, with no one here to back her up.
Stop it! Kill the fear and think cold. She saw Agent Hibbard’s face again, in the classroom at Quantico. He’d had them repeat his mantra to themselves in his deep Southern drawl. “You’re in trouble. You’re alone. You don’t have your weapon. What’s the first thing you do?” He had everyone in the classroom say it aloud. But saying it was easier than doing it. Pippa took deep breaths to slow her breathing, ignored her throbbing head, and quietly stamped her feet again. She could handle herself in a hand-to-hand fight, she knew it, but her hands were a mess. She could try to take Black Hoodie down if he came back for her. But he had a gun, and she didn’t. She felt another wave of dizziness. What symptom would hit her next? Would she black out again? She had to get out of this ancient rotting building, find Chief Wilde, and give him a treat to make his Monday night. She knew Wilde lived on Upper Marlin Road, only a short distance from downtown St. Lumis. She’d call Dillon from the chief’s house. He had to be worried. Was he already on his way?
She made her way carefully through the rows of shelves, got to the ramshackle door, closed now on its rusted hinges, and drew it inward quietly. She looked outside. The derelict old buildings stood like desolate monoliths framed by the darkening sky. She didn’t see or hear anyone.
She set out, keeping to the side streets, close to buildings. It was nearly full-on dark now. She heard voices from inside houses, heard a TV and a father yelling at a kid to get himself to bed. Already? When did it get completely dark in early November? Six o’clock?
She didn’t see anyone as she made her way through downtown, except for a couple of teenagers on a corner, trying, she imagined, to find something to do. It had to be late enough for the stores to have closed. As she neared the Chesapeake, the wind picked up. It felt like November now, and she was wearing only her jacket. But the cold kept her head clear and took her mind off the pain. The police station was on the way to the chief’s house, so Pippa headed there, hoping Wilde hadn’t left yet. There was a light on in the large front window of the station. She saw an older man, wearing a parka indoors. Was the heat in the station out? He looked to be working on a crossword puzzle. No one else seemed to be inside. She didn’t ev
en consider going in. She turned away and walked to the corner of West Main and Faire Street, toward Wilde’s house. Then she heard a man’s low voice not twenty feet from her talking on a cell. Was it Black Hoodie’s voice? Was he looking for her? It didn’t matter.
Pippa ran.
27
Pippa hugged the shadows as she passed a half dozen houses and finally reached Upper Marlin Road. The houses were set a good distance apart from one another, thick stands of trees dividing them. She had a stitch in her side, but she kept running under the shadows of naked-branched trees. She was breathing hard when she saw a small white cottage. There was a light on in the front window and a nondescript compact car in the driveway. He had to be at home. She hoped he was alone, but if he wasn’t, well, she’d think of something. She held her side as she walked up the flagstone path to the small front porch.
She didn’t have her FBI creds or her Glock, couldn’t prove who she was. She knew he’d take her in, but how he’d react when she told him what had happened was another question. She looked around again, didn’t see any sign of Black Hoodie or anyone else.
Pippa took a deep breath and knocked. She heard a loud bark and scrabbling paws on hardwood racing to the door. Then Chief Wilde’s voice, “Calm yourself, Gunther.”
Pippa drew a deep breath. What to say? Hello, Chief. Happy Monday evening. Have I got a bit of a story for you. And, oh yes, I think they’re looking for me.
Wilde opened the door and did a double take. “You’re Pippa, right? Cinelli? What’s happened to you? There’s blood on your face. Well, blood a lot of places.”
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