“You’ll make me look like Superman.”

Irene shook her head. “Not at all. I’ll use a little fiction to reinforce what we both know is the truth. You’re the best law enforcement professional that this community has ever seen.”

Gail laughed. “Oh, now you sweet-talk me. You’ll help to lock in my career, and all I have to do is sell my soul.”

Irene folded her face into a concerned frown. “A career is a poker game, Gail. You can’t expect to win every hand. Sometimes you have to fold to preserve resources for the future.”

Gail studied Irene. “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

“You don’t,” Irene said. “But I’m not. I’ve got it all-the cards, the cash, and the table. You really, truly want to sit out this hand.”

“And what about the other murders?” Gail asked. “The Caldwells? I can link Jonathan Grave to those deaths via the Hughes family.”

The news clearly startled Irene, and Gail was sorry that she’d said anything. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “How are they linked?”

Sensing the upper hand and loving it, Gail smiled. “I don’t believe I’ll share that with you,” she said.

Irene shook it off. “I don’t know who this Jonathan person is,” she lied, “but whatever you think you know, I guarantee you’re wrong.”

“Yet you’ll stipulate, I assume, that Stephenson and Julie Hughes are connected to the Caldwell murders.”

Irene hesitated. Gail could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to work for position.

“I’ve already spoken to the investigating officer in Muncie, Irene,” Gail said, sealing the deal. “He wants to nail the Hugheses. His Hugheses are the parents of Thomas Hughes. Jonathan Grave rescued Thomas Hughes and killed the Patrones in the process. That links them all.”

Irene stood. Her features iced over. “Sheriff Bonneville,” she said as she walked toward the front door, “I’m going to offer one last bit of advice, and I’m going to beg you to listen to it carefully.” She turned.

Gail suppressed a shiver.

“Know when it’s time to stop pushing,” she said. “There are some answers to which you simply are not entitled.”

She let herself out.

Chapter Thirty

Detective Weatherby sat on the front corner of the ancient metal desk, one foot on the floor and the other swinging in an exaggerated display of pated his hand.

Jonathan accepted it, and the detective’s grip closed like a talon. “But about that killing thing,” Weatherby said, trying to pull Jonathan in closer but damn near getting pulled off the desk himself. “I meant what I said before. Vengeance is mine, saith the Fairfax County Police Department. You start hurting people, and I guarantee I will become your very worst enemy.”

Doug put a hand on each of their chests and pushed them apart. “Enough!” he commanded. “Jesus, Weatherby, what’s with you?”

“I just want your friend to know that we don’t need his help.”

“I have no intention of helping you,” Jonathan said. “You have my word.”

The detective’s grip relaxed and he scowled again at the double meaning buried in Jonathan’s words.

Doug Kramer said, “I don’t know who you think this man is, Weatherby, but he’s not your enemy. Hell, as far as I know, there’s no one alive who thinks of him as an enemy.”

A double entendre of his own, Jonathan thought. Just how much did Doug Kramer know about his business?

“You need somebody to vouch for his character,” Doug went on, “you just ask me. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s not someone for you to worry about.”

Jonathan pulled his hand away. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. “Thank you for your kind words, Weatherby.”

The detective stayed behind while Jonathan led the way back to Doug’s cruiser. When they were inside and on their way, the chief asked, “As bad as you feared? Ellen, I mean?”

Jonathan looked at him across the console and sighed. “Worse.”

Doug kept his eyes on the road. “I’m really sorry, Dig.”

Jonathan nodded and joined him in watching the lane stripes on the Beltway zoom past. They remained silent all the way to the I-95 turnoff before Doug started talking again. “You know, Jon, there’s not a soul in the Cove who’s not hurting for you over what happened to Ellen. It’s just not right.” His voice was at once serious and soft. Jonathan wasn’t sure he’d ever heard that tone before.

He felt his throat thicken. “Thank you.”

The cop’s eyes shifted from the road to bore right through his passenger. “I’m not done yet. If there’s anything I can do to help you-I mean, anything, you just let me know, and it’s yours.” He started looking at traffic again. “I’ve never known much officially about the work you do, but most people in town know about the work you used to do. There’s been talk about why you quit early, but the Cove is proud of you, Dig. Proud and pleased to call you their friend. You know what I’m trying to tell you?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I’m not sure I do.”

Doug sighed. “And I’m not sure how to tell you, because it’s not something I can tell you, if you catch my drift. I just wanted you to know that under circumstances like this, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and whatever that means, you’ve got friends who’ll back you up.”

Jesus, Jonathan thought, Doug just offered to cover up a murder.

Gail opened her front door and found Jesse Collier standing there, slightly out of breath. “Thanks for coming,” she said, and ushered him inside.

“Thanclarified.

“Fine,” she said. She tapped her keyboard and the screen filled with an aerial photograph. “This comes from the SkysEye network,” she said, “and it’s only about an hour old. I think this is Ivan Patrick’s playground. Brigadeville, right? It’s the only patch of real estate that came close to fitting what your friend in the alley told you.”

“Andrew Hawkins,” Jonathan reminded her. SkysEye was a commercial mapping company that anyone with the financial means could access for the going rate of twenty grand a year for an open license, plus a usurious tasking fee every time they wanted a picture. The private satellite network was a recent startup headed by Lee Burns, one of the original Unit members who hadn’t seen action in two decades. At various high and low orbits, SkysEye satellites could count the dimples on a golf ball anywhere on the planet. Lee’s largest customers came from the petroleum industry, which used the network to locate the kinds of geological formations that looked like money. Given the founder’s background in Special Forces, Jonathan worried that Lee might have sold his services to a few bad guys over the years-after all, finding geological formations wasn’t a lot different than precision targeting-but he’d have never stated his concerns aloud. He owed that much to a brother in arms.

What was most remarkable about the SkysEye imaging-what set it apart from other commercial sites-was its ability to provide real-time imaging that refreshed every four minutes. Through extrapolation and a little guesswork, you could determine whether a particular piece of real estate was currently occupied, how many vehicles were there, whether or not there was an active power plant, and a host of other details that were of value to an invader. It was nowhere near as helpful as the SatCom images he’d used back in the day, but it was a close second.

Accessing the pictures was only the beginning. The real trick lay in manipulating the images to deliver the highest resolution. The raw images were little more than a tableau of treetops, the thick foliage making ground details difficult to discern. To learn useful details, Venice superimposed a thermal imaging view that showed the presence of three dozen individual buildings of varying size and shape. Using that data, a smart CAD system was able to make an accurate sketch of the entire area. The overall layout reminded him of old Army posts from the days of the Indian wars. An open space anchored the middle of the complex, with most buildings arranged in concentric ovals. In the back corner, far from the other structures, two buildings stood alone.