Davis said, “Carlos, when he first called you, didn’t you wonder how he got your cell number?”

Carlos paused, frowned, then shook his head. “No, but I wondered later. I scrolled through my contacts, but it couldn’t have been any of them. And they wouldn’t have given out my cell number to a stranger.”

Davis continued. “And it was you who came here last night, wrecked Ms. Black’s motorcycle?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but yes. He called me again that day, told me I had to do that for him, too, or he would see to it Isabel would be buried next to her grandmother in Meadowland Cemetery. He knew everything about us.”

All he had to do was a thorough Web search, Davis knew. Carlos had been too scared to realize that. But the threat to the girl he loved, that was potent, enough to terrify a young man into doing anything asked to protect her.

“And yet he called you again, is that right? Sent you here tonight?”

“No, it wasn’t me he called. I threw away my cell phone, so I wouldn’t hear from him again. Today he called Isabel.”

Perry said, “Where have you been?”

His eyes fell to his sneakers. He mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“In Mr. Sallivar’s shed, in their backyard. Isabel brought me food. Then she found out the FBI was looking for me, and I didn’t know what to do. We thought about running away, and then the man called Isabel on her own cell phone today, made her bring it to me.”

Carlos shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t want to take her phone because I knew it was him even though the call was blocked, but I was afraid not to answer.”

“Of course you had to answer. I want you to think about this, Carlos. What did he ask you to do, exactly?”

Carlos was quiet for a minute, then he said in a singsong voice, “He told me write that note, those words exactly, and put it in an envelope. He told me to come back here to Ms. Black’s house at midnight and gave me the code to the alarm, 25596. He made me write it down. He told me if I was quiet she wouldn’t hear me from the bedroom. He told me to leave it against her coffeepot in the kitchen, reset the alarm, and leave.

“I didn’t have a choice. I decided to do this last thing, and then to run away, by myself. It wouldn’t be right to take Isabel with me. Her father would never forgive me. So I thought I might be seeing her tonight for the last time. I don’t mean I planned to have sex with Isabel, but—” He fell silent, and his smooth, lean cheeks stained red.

So that’s why the condom. Davis wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He shoved Carlos back into the chair, patted his jacket, and straightened. He called Savich.

“Yeah?”

Davis heard a delighted laugh in the background, a female laugh, Sherlock’s laugh. He’d interrupted fun time.

“I have Carlos Acosta here at Perry’s,” he said. “Turns out Carlos was hiding in Mr. Sallivar’s shed, with Mr. Sallivar’s daughter Isabel seeing to his creature comforts.”

When Davis punched off his cell a minute later, he looked down at the slender young man who did look like Mr. Sallivar, only thirty years younger. He was a soft-spoken, handsome young man, and he looked scared, really scared. As he should be. Davis said, “All right, no jail time for you yet, Carlos. But you and Isabel are both going to be in protective custody for a couple of days. We’ll be going over your stories very, very carefully.” He hauled Carlos to his feet.

Perry held out her hand. “Give me the condom.”

Carlos gave her a long look, then looked toward Davis.

She smacked his shoulder. “No, you idiot, it’s not for my use, it’s to keep your paws off Isabel. That is, if you have any honor left.”

“I do, I swear I do. Please, we have to hurry. When he finds out I failed, he might kill Isabel.”

When he finds out you didn’t get yourself killed and got caught instead, that ought to give him serious pause. Davis said, “He won’t get near Isabel. I’ll take care of that. Come along, Carlos.”

He turned at the front door. “Keep a light on for me, Black.” His eyes flicked to her Kimber still on the coffee table. “Keep the gun close and reset your alarm.”

Washington, D.C.

Early Friday morning

Blessed was nearly out of cash again. Before the accident—that was how he liked to think of it—getting cash was never a problem. He could walk into a bank—never in his hometown, Father had said that wasn’t smart—fasten his eyes on the teller, and very politely tell him or her to hand over whatever amount he wanted. He was never greedy, something Father had always preached. Of course, the teller would be short that night, and what a brouhaha that would cause, but it wasn’t Blessed’s problem.