He dropped Delsey and ran to the window. Delsey was behind him, her blood-splattered nightgown flapping at her ankles.

They looked at a man standing at the base of a tall ladder leaned against the B&B wall in the alley below the window. He stared up at them, and they saw his face clearly. A split second later, the man turned and ran down the alley away from them and disappeared around a corner.

“Give me a second, Delsey, I’ve got to call Dix.” He grabbed her cell out of its charger on the bedside table, since his was in his bedroom.

A moment later, he laid the cell on the bedside table and turned to see Delsey standing in the middle of the small bedroom, blood-spattered, pale as death, trying not to look at the dead man on the floor beside the bed. He shoved the window down.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” but she could hear herself wheezing for breath. “I’m cold, Griffin, I’m so cold I’m going to crack like ice. You’re okay, right?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll bet the other man was the second man in my apartment.” She raised shocked eyes to his face. “He was waiting for his partner to kill me and then what? They’d go have a beer?” She knew her voice sounded weak, thin as a thread, but she couldn’t help it. She looked again at the dead man. “He’s so young. Thank you for saving my life, Griffin. How did you know?”

Griffin shrugged. “I guess I woke up and I heard him.”

“But how could you hear him? He was whispering and he had his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t make a sound. I couldn’t scream or anything.”

“Well, whatever, we’re both okay.”

He’d somehow known, and for that, she was more grateful than she’d ever been in her life. She felt a punch of nausea and swallowed convulsively when she looked down at herself. Her old soft-as-butter white granny nightgown wasn’t soft or white now. “May I go take a shower, Griffin?”

“Make it nice and hot, okay?”

She nodded, took one more look at the dead man. “He’s so young, Griffin, maybe not even twenty. The other man, he knows we saw him. He knows.”

“Maybe so, but we don’t have to worry anymore about this one. Go take your shower.”

When he heard the water turn on in the bathroom, he went down on his haunches beside the dead man. He studied his face. Delsey was right, he was so damned young. He’d shot him three times in the chest, center mass. His eyes and his mouth were both open, his mouth in silent surprise. He saw something on the side of his neck. It was a tattoo. He gently turned his head to the side. There in Gothic script were MS and the number 13 right below.

Washington, D.C.

Sunday, midnight

When his cell belted out “Tequila,” Savich was sleeping beside Sherlock, dreaming for some reason about Sister Maria’s song in The Sound of Music, the movie Sean had watched for the umpteenth time before bed. He awoke instantly. “Savich.”

“Savich, Agent Sparks here. Stony Hart’s dead, dammit, and I swear I never saw anyone go in. The girlfriend came running out of the building screaming. I called 911, and Metro is on their way. I calmed her down, took her back upstairs, told her to stay in the kitchen. I looked in the bedroom. It looks like Hart committed suicide.”

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The early-morning hours in Washington were like an entirely different city for Savich and his Porsche. The only traffic was mostly young professionals trying to get themselves home safely before the workweek started again in a few hours. Moonlight reflected off the white snow and helped light their way. The streets were free of ice, the temperature still hovering above freezing. The heater started to blast out hot air as the engine warmed.

While Savich drove, Sherlock called Agent Sparks to get more details. When she punched off her cell, she said, “Bill said Stony never left his apartment. There was a pizza delivery at eight. Bill checked with the pizza guy, verified he delivered the pizza to Hart’s apartment, said a young woman paid him. Her name’s Janelle Eckles, his girlfriend. She left about nine o’clock, got into a car with two other young women. Bill said Stony’s lights were the last to go off in the building, about eleven. He saw the girlfriend come back before midnight, let herself in. The apartment lights went on, and she came out screaming. No wonder.”

Savich was frowning. “Suicide?”

“I suppose someone could have gotten in through the rear entrance of the building without Bill seeing him, but Bill says we’ll see for ourselves.” Sherlock looked at the GPS, then shot a look at a street sign. “Not much farther. Turn left here on Green Leaf Avenue, Dillon. And I know you’re already blaming yourself, so stop it, or you’re going to piss me off. This is not your fault.”