“That overzealous U.S. attorney now heads up the entire office.”

The color slipped from Mace’s face. “What!”

“A month ago Mona Danforth was named interim U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia by the AG.”

“ U.S. attorney! Dad’s old office?”

“That’s right,” Beth said with disgust.

“The attorney general named her? I thought they had to be Senate confirmed after the president appointed them.”

“The AG gets to appoint Mona for a hundred and twenty days. If the president doesn’t name a permanent candidate and have that appointee confirmed by the Senate by then, the authority to appoint goes to the district court. The problem is, the AG, the president, and the district court folks all love Mona. So she’s a lock for the job any way you cut it. I expect the president to formally name Mona any day now. And from what I understand the Senate confirmation is a gimme.”

“I can’t believe that woman is running the largest U.S. Attorney’s Office in the country. She has the least morals of any prosecutor I’ve ever been around.”

“She’s still out there screaming that you got a sweetheart deal because of your connections. Meaning me, of course. And if we hadn’t gotten the sentence knocked down on appeal she might have been crowing instead of screaming.”

“She ought to be in prison. How many times has she looked the other way when evidence got doctored or else went missing when it didn’t cut to her side? How many times has she sat and listened to people on the stand commit perjury by feeding back the lines she wrote for them?”

Beth slid her BlackBerry in her pocket. “Proof, little sister. Hearsay won’t cut it. She’s got everyone who matters to her climb up the ladder snookered.”

Mace put her head in her hands and groaned. “This has got to be the parallel world where Superman is evil. How do I get off the ride?”

“You never get off the ride. You just learn to hold on a different way.”

Mace looked at her sister through a gap in her fingers. “So, is the political pressure on you coming from Mona and her demented heavyweight supporters?”

“Mona has never been my biggest fan.”

“I’ll take that as a hell yes.”

“And I can handle it.”

“But it would be better if you backed off trying to find out who set me up.”

“Better for whom? The bandits or Mona? Neither of whom I give a crap about. There is no law against the police investigating crimes. And if we get lucky and nail the bastards, you get your record expunged and also receive an official apology and reinstatement to the force.”

“An apology from who, Mona?”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Okay, we were talking options?”

“You can’t do anything that would require a security clearance, which in this town cuts out a lot of possibilities, and the overall job market sucks right now.”

“If you’re trying to pep up my spirits, please stop before I stab myself in the heart with a fork since I can no longer own a gun to use to kill myself.”

“You wanted options. I’m giving them to you.”

“I haven’t heard an option. All I’ve heard is what I can’t do.”

Beth slid a paper across to her. “Well, here’s maybe something you can do.”

Mace looked down at what was written on the sheet.

“Dr. Abraham Altman? I remember him.”

“And he remembers you. Not many college professors run afoul of one of the worst drug crews in Ward Nine.”

“That’s right. Nice guy, just doing some research into urban issues. The HF-12 crew didn’t see it that way and came over to G-town to give him grief.”

“And you stepped in and saved his ass.”

“You’ve kept up with him?”

“I was a guest lecturer in criminal justice over at Georgetown when you were in West Virginia. He and I reconnected.”

“So what does that mean for me?”

“He’s looking for a research assistant.”

Mace gaped at her sister. “Beth, I didn’t even finish college. My ‘graduate work’ was sixteen weeks at the police academy, so I’m not exactly the poster girl for research assistants.”

“He’s doing urban research, specifically into impoverished and crime-ridden areas of D.C. I don’t think there’s anyone out there more qualified to help on that issue than you. And Altman’s got a big federal research grant and can pay you well. He’ll be home tonight. Around seven, if you can make it.”

“So you arranged all this?”

“All I really did was make a suggestion to Altman. He was already your second biggest fan.”

It took a moment for Mace to interpret this remark. “Meaning you’re my biggest?”

Beth rose. “I’ve got to run. I’ve got testimony on the-”

Her cell phone buzzed. She answered, listened, and clicked off. “Change of plan.”

“What is it?”

“Just got word that some big-shot lady lawyer dropped out of a fridge at her law firm. Board’s been called,” she added, referring to the ambulance. “Bandit apparently long gone.”

Mace looked at her sister expectantly.

“What?” Beth asked.

“I don’t have anything to do.”

“So relax, go sleep on a real bed. There’s some Rocky Road in the freezer. Go put some weight on those bones.”

“I’m not tired. And I’m not hungry. For food, anyway.”

“What, you want to go to the crime scene?”

“Thanks, Beth. I’ll follow you on the bike.”

“Hold on, I didn’t say you could go.”

“I just assumed.”

“Never assume, Mace. If Dad taught us one thing, it’s that.”

“I won’t get in the way. I swear. I… I just… miss it, Beth.”

“Mace, I’m sorry. I don’t think it would be a good idea-” Mace cut her off. “Fine, forget it. You’re right. I’ll just go eat some Rocky Road and take a nap. And try not to die from excitement.”

She started to walk off, her head down, her shoulders slumped.

“All right, you can come,” Beth said grudgingly. “But keep your mouth shut. You’re invisible. Okay?”

Mace didn’t answer; she was sprinting to her bike.

“And stop whining,” Beth called after her.

CHAPTER 9

ROY KINGMAN had hit thirty-one shots in a row on his behind-the-door basketball hoop. The police had swarmed the place minutes after he’d phoned 911. It still didn’t seem possible that he’d gone to make coffee, opened the fridge, and caught Diane Tolliver’s dead body before it hit the floor. He’d been asked lots of questions by lots of people, some in uniform and some not. As the other lawyers had arrived at work, word had quickly spread as to what had happened. Several partners and a few associates had stopped by to see him, offering supportive words and also expressions of sympathy, puzzlement, and fear. One fellow lawyer had even seemed a bit suspicious of him.

The cops wouldn’t tell him anything. He didn’t know how long Diane had been dead. He didn’t even know what had killed the woman. There was no blood or wounds that he could see. Although he’d defended accused murderers when he’d been a CJA and had seen his share of autopsy photos, he wasn’t exactly an expert on violent death.

He looked at his desk full of work to do and then glanced away. Not today. The clients could wait. He hadn’t been Diane Tolliver’s closest confidant, but he had worked with her and liked her. She’d taught him a lot. And somebody had killed her and stuffed her in a fridge next to a container of days-old potato salad.

He palmed the little rubber ball, cocked his arm back, and with a smooth motion released his thirty-second shot. It sailed straight and true right to the hoop. Only the door opened and the rubber ball hit Beth Perry in the head instead. She bent down to pick it up and tossed it back to him as he rose from his chair, his mouth agape as his gaze took in the four stars. Not that he needed that to know who she was. The D.C. police chief was in the media spotlight quite a bit.

People marched in behind her. The last one closed the door. The last one was Mace, doing her best to get lost in the crowd. Beth introduced herself and some of the folks with her. She’d already interviewed the first responders and looked at the body. Other than Roy there were no witnesses, at least that they had found so far. The paramedics had preliminarily pronounced Tolliver dead, and the ME was on the way to make that pronouncement official.