He shouldn’t feel bad about this, he really shouldn’t. Everything he had told Julie Getty was the truth.

So why do I feel like the world’s biggest asshole?

A half mile from his apartment he pulled to the curb and got out. He opened the door of the shop and went inside. He was instantly hit by a thick wall of scents. If he’d had allergies he would have started sneezing.

He walked to the counter where a young woman was working. He pulled out the tiny white fragments and set them on the counter as she turned to him.

“Strange question, I know,” he began. “Could you tell me what kind of flower this is?”

The young woman peered down at the fragments of petals. “That’s not really a flower, sir.”

“It’s all that was left.”

She poked it with a finger and held it up to her nose. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I only work here part-time.”

“Is there anybody else who can help me?”

“Give me a sec.”

She stepped into a back room and a few moments later a woman wearing spectacles came out. She was older and heavier and for some reason Robie concluded that she was the owner of this florist shop.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely.

Robie repeated his question. The woman picked up what remained of the petal, held it close to her eyes, took off her glasses, examined it more closely, and then took a whiff.

“White rose,” she said decisively. “A Madame Alfred Carriere.” She pointed to a spot on the petal. “You can see just a hint of pink blush there. And the smell is strong spicy-sweet. The Madame Plantier by comparison is all white and the smell is quite different—at least it is to someone who knows roses. I’ve got some Carriere in stock if you’d like to see them.”

“Maybe another time.” Robie paused, thinking how best to phrase this. “What would you buy white flowers for? I mean, what sort of an occasion?”

“Oh, well, white roses are a traditional wedding flower. They symbolize innocence, purity, virginity, you know, those sorts of things.”

Robie glanced over at the young woman and found her rolling her eyes.

“Although it is interesting,” said the older woman.

Robie refocused on her. “What is?”

“Well, white roses are often used at funeral services too. They represent peacefulness, spiritual love, that sort of thing.” She glanced down at the petal Robie had brought in. She put her finger on the pinkish smudge. “Although that’s another sort of symbol that I wouldn’t associate with peace.”

“The pink part? What do you mean?”

“Well, some people associate it with something entirely different from peace and love.”

“What?”

“Blood.”

CHAPTER

19

ROBIE LEFT THE FLOWER SHOP and headed on. He had a lot to think about. And he was angry. Flowers at both scenes. No, actually remnantsof flowers at both scenes. The files he had been given were not the only thing his agency had redacted. They had policed the crime scenes and removed the white roses that Reel had left there, but they had missed a couple petals.

In her message Reel had suggested that he watch his back. That there were other agendas on the table. Now he was thinking she was more right than wrong about that.

The new location Blue Man had directed him to was west of D.C. in Loudoun County, Virginia. This was horse country, big estates behind miles of fencing, mingled with more modest homesteads. Interspersed throughout were small towns with upscale shopping and restaurants that catered to the well-heeled playing at being country squires. Alongside those establishments were stores that sold things people actually needed, like crop seed and saddles.

Eventually Robie turned down a graveled lane bracketed by dense pines that had turned the ground underneath them orange with their fallen needles. There was a sign at the entrance to the lane that warned folks who did not have business down here not to make the turn.

He came to a steel gate manned by two men in cammies and holding MP5s. He and his car were searched and his invitation to be here confirmed. The steel gate slid open on motorized tracks and he drove on.

The complex was sprawling and all on one story. It looked like a well-funded community college.

He parked and walked to the front door, was buzzed in, and a woman in a conservative navy blue pantsuit escorted him back. On her hip rode her security creds. Robie eyed them. When she glanced up at him and saw what he was doing she admonished, “I wouldn’t commit them to memory.”

“I never do,” replied Robie.

He was left in a sterile examination room by the woman, who closed the door behind her. He assumed it would lock automatically. He doubted they wanted him wandering the halls unaccompanied.

A minute later the door opened and another woman came in. She was slender, in her late thirties, with long dark hair tied back, glasses, and red lipstick. She wore a white doctor’s coat.

“I’m Dr. Karin Meenan, Mr. Robie. I understand you’ve sustained some injuries?”

“Nothing too serious.”

“Where are they located?”

“Arm and leg.”

“Can you disrobe and get up on the table, please?”

She prepared some medical devices while Robie took off his jacket, shirt, pants, and shoes. He perched on the table while Meenan sat on a stool with rollers and moved closer to him.

She looked at the burns. “You think these aren’t serious?” she said, her eyebrows hiked.

“I’m not dead.”

She continued to examine him. “I guess you have a different set of standards than most.”

“I guess.”

“Did you clean these?”

“Yes.”

“You did a good job,” she noted.

“Thanks.”

“But they need some more work.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m also going to give you some meds to prevent infection. And a shot.”

“Whatever you think best,” replied Robie.

“You’re a very cooperative patient.”

“Do you get any other kind here?”

“Not really. But I didn’t always work here, either,” said Meenan.

“Where before?”

“Trauma center, southeast D.C.”

“Then you’ve seen your share of gunshot wounds.”

“Yes, I have. Speaking of which, you have your share.” She eyed two spots on Robie’s body. She placed her finger in a divot on Robie’s arm. “Nine-mil?”

“Three-fifty-seven, actually. Shooter was using an off-brand that luckily jammed on him the second time around, or else I might not be here talking to you.”

Her gaze flicked up at him. “Are you often lucky in your work?”

“Almost never.”

“It’s not about luck, is it?”

“Almost never,” he repeated.

She spent the next hour thoroughly cleaning and then bandaging his wounds. “I can give you the first round of meds in the butt or the arm. The injection spot will be sore for a while,” she said.

Robie immediately held out his left arm.

“You shoot right-handed, I take it.”

“Yes,” he answered.

She stuck the syringe into his arm and depressed the plunger. “There will be a bottle of pills waiting for you in the lobby. Follow the directions and you shouldn’t have any problems. But you werelucky. You came close to requiring skin grafts. As it is the skin may not heal completely without plastic surgery.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.”

“Do you do autopsies here?”

She looked surprised. “No, why?”