Roy eyed Jill, the young receptionist, who’d been watching the two men closely. “Any idea what’s going on, Jill?”

“You’re in trouble, Roy.”

“That one I’d figured out. Any idea why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Roy dropped off his briefcase in his office and headed to Ackerman’s. He closed the door behind him and sat down across from the man.

“You’re looking less stressed out, Chester,” Roy began amiably.

“I have no idea how that’s possible,” Ackerman shot back. “Because I feel like my damn head is going to explode.”

Roy crossed his legs and tried to look mildly curious. “So what’s up?” Please, God, don’t let it be about the damn fire alarm.

“What the hell is this I hear about you representing the man the police have arrested for Diane’s murder? Please tell me that is complete and total horseshit.”

“Hold on, I can explain that-”

Ackerman rose, looking even more agitated. “So it’s true?”

“I met with the guy. He wants me to rep him. I haven’t-”

“You know Diane’s killer? You actually know the bastard?”

“Wait a minute, it hasn’t been proved that he is Diane’s killer, Chester.”

“Oh for God’s sakes. He was in the building that morning. No, he was trespassing. And I understand some of the evidence the police found ties him to the murder.”

“Who told you that?”

“What I want to know is how you could possibly think of defending this person?”

“I guess it’s that whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing they taught us in law school.”

“Don’t give me that crap. And besides, you work for this firm. We do not do criminal defense work. You cannot accept an assignment like that without the firm’s approval, specifically my approval as managing partner.” Ackerman added in a snarl, “And you don’t have a chance in hell of getting it.”

“I only met with the guy once, okay? I defended him on an assault charge when I was with CJA. But I don’t think the guy did it, Chester.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think. You are not representing him. Period.”

Roy stood. “I’m not really liking your whole tone here.”

“Trust me, you’ll like it a lot less if you go down that road.”

“I can quit.”

“Yes, you can. But why in the hell would you? Give up the golden egg for some homicidal homeless freak?”

Roy felt his face growing hot. “He’s not a freak. He’s a veteran. He fought and bled for this country. He’s still got North Vietnamese shrapnel a few millimeters from his spine.”

“Right, right. And he killed Diane. So make your choice.”

Roy turned to the door. “I’ll let you know.”

“Kingman!”

“I said I’ll let you know.”

Roy slammed the door behind him.

MACE HAD BARELY slept at all. This time, though, it wasn’t nightmares about Juanita and the throat-slicing Rose coming for her. It was the recurring image of her father in his coffin. She’d just turned twelve, Beth was eighteen and getting ready to head off to college at Georgetown on full scholarship. The day of the funeral the casket had been closed because of the disfiguring nature of Benjamin Perry’s fatal wounds.

Yet Mace had seen her father that final day. She’d snuck away. Her mother was mush, collapsing on any shoulder she could find, while Beth was handling everything that their mom should have been dealing with. They had gotten to the church early, before the coffin had been brought into the chapel.

It was just Mace and the coffin in a small room next to where the memorial service would be held. She remembered every smell, every sound, and every breath she’d drawn in the few minutes she stood there, staring at the big wooden box with the metal handles on the sides containing her dad. To this day she wasn’t sure why she’d done it, but she’d gathered her courage, walked up to the casket, held her breath, and pushed the top open.

As soon as she saw him, she wished someone had stopped her. She stared at the body lying there for a few terrible seconds.

That face.

Or what was left of it.

Then she’d turned and run from the room, leaving the top still up. That wasn’t her father. Her father didn’t look like that.

Mace rushed to the bathroom, and ran cold water over her head and splashed some on her face. She looked at herself in the darkened reflection of the mirror. She could never shake the feeling that she had let him down somehow. If she had just reacted in a different way, seen or heard something, she believed that her father would still be alive. If she only had done something! Anything!

My fault. Age twelve. My fault.

Beth had found her hiding in a closet at the church after closing the casket. She too had seen her father dead. And neither sister had ever talked about it since. Beth had held Mace for what seemed like forever that day, letting her cry, letting her shake, but telling her that everything was going to be okay. That the body in the coffin was just a body, their dad had already gone on to a much better place. And he would watch over them forever. She’d promised. And Mace had believed her. Her sister would never lie to her.

Beth being next to her was the only reason she had made it through the service. It certainly hadn’t been her mother, who’d blubbered through the whole event, including when the soldier had handed her the U.S. flag in recognition of her father’s service in Vietnam. When the honor guard had started shooting their rifle salute everyone covered their ears. Everyone except the two Perry sisters. Mace remembered quite vividly what she had been thinking when those rifles fired a total of twenty-one rounds.

I wanted a gun. I wanted a gun to kill whoever had killed my dad.

And though she’d never asked, Mace felt certain that Beth had been thinking the very same thing.

Her mother had refused the shell casings offered by the honor guard. Beth had taken them and given eleven to Mace and kept ten for herself. Mace knew that Beth kept her bag of casings in her desk drawer at her office. Once when she’d been with the force and met with her sister to go over some work, she’d seen a pensive Beth open the drawer, take out the casings, and hold them tightly in her hand, as though channeling her father’s wisdom.

Mace drank some water from her cupped hand, walked back into her bedroom, opened her knapsack, and pulled out her bag of eleven shell casings. Beth had of course kept them for her when she went to prison. She held them against her chest, the tears staining her cheeks as she desperately tried to absorb some wisdom of her own from the best man she’d ever known. But nothing came.

The aftermath of her father’s murder and her mother’s withdrawal from the lives of her daughters had made Mace increasingly vulnerable. It was a feeling she hated. She’d become a cop, in part, to allow the weight of the badge and the threat of her gun to override that vulnerability. She desperately wanted to belong to something. And the MPD served that desire.

Did she also want to follow her sister? Even show she might be better than her in certain respects? Mace couldn’t, in all honesty, deny that.

A half hour later she changed into her workout clothes and did some stretching and push-ups. The blood rush to her muscles was very welcome, after the weary night and the early morning soul searching.

The sun was well up now and the air outside was warm, which was good because Mace couldn’t seem to get rid of the chills. She stepped outside and started her run. The estate was big, with a well-marked trail that wound in and out of trees and head-high bushes. She’d been running for half an hour when she stopped, turned, and her hand flashed to her waist. To pull the gun that wasn’t there.

“You are good,” said the voice. “Lucky for me you’re not packing.”