“They’re as distraught as you can imagine. Claim the kid’s some sort of supergenius. Gonna cure cancer, all that.”

“I keep hearing that. Anything on the traffic cams? I noticed one on the corner.”

“We’re looking at everything between ten and two. And we’re going to recanvass the area. There’s a camera mounted a few doors down, but the folks weren’t home when we knocked.”

“Good. Anything we can get will help. Sam, you know his professors at Georgetown, right? Can you get us in to talk to them?”

She nodded. “Of course. I’ll go set something up right now.” She walked a little ways down the leafy green street, punching numbers in her cell phone.

Hart gave him the fish eye. “What are you doing, dragging her in here? She’s a civilian, Fletcher, albeit a talented one. You can’t keep involving her in our cases. It’s not seemly.”

“Now, now, don’t get your panties in a wad. She’s a legitimate part of the investigation. Apparently, our female vic was undercover FBI. Sam’s taking John Baldwin’s place for the time being while he deals with another case.”

“Whose idea was that?”

Fletcher smiled. “Lonnie, worry not, okay? I wouldn’t do anything to compromise this investigation. She’s got a knack for this—took her all of ten minutes to dig out the hidden refrigerator. Speaking of which, I trust you’ve told Robertson I’m gunning for him?” Mel Robertson was the head of the crime scene unit—it was his boys and girls who’d screwed the pooch.

“Robertson is quaking in his size-fourteen boots.” A few spatters of rain started, and Hart popped a baseball cap onto his bald pate.

Fletcher put the file he was holding over his own head as a shield. “I’m not kidding. If Robertson ain’t gonna take this seriously, I’ll let Armstrong go after him. What sort of bullshit is this, that we can’t trust our own crime scene techs to do their jobs?”

“You sound like a bureaucrat.” But Hart was smiling. He liked the idea of Robertson getting chewed out.

“I am a bureaucrat. Now.”

Sam was walking back toward them, a worried look on her face. When she reached them, Fletcher shared his file folder with her.

“What’s the matter?”

She bit her lip. “Thomas Cattafi isn’t a student at Georgetown anymore. He was kicked out two weeks ago. The dean says he can’t discuss it over the phone. We’ll have to go see him to find out more.”

Chapter 15

Teterboro Airport

New Jersey

XANDER WAS ONCE again standing with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot to alleviate the boredom. As predicted, when the New Jersey cops had rolled in, he’d been recuffed and brought to another interrogation room inside the Teterboro Airport, then left to cool his heels while the powers that be decided what to do with him. The room was a dingy white, a twin to the one he’d been in with Chalk and Denon, nothing more than a table, four chairs and a camera bolted high in the northeast corner. No windows, nothing to allow him to entertain himself.

Left to his own devices, he’d begun brooding about the shooting again. He’d done the right thing, he knew it, but the image of the shooter crumpling over the parapet replayed in his mind. He hadn’t killed anyone since he’d separated from the Army, taken his honorable discharge and walked away into the woods. For the first several weeks, he’d even done catch and release on the damn trout he landed, simply because he couldn’t stand the thought of harming anything else.

That ended. Of course it did. His sense returned. But he’d not taken a human life since that last firefight in Jalālābād, and he’d hoped he never would have to again.

If he was going to have a career in close protection, clearly he was going to have to realign his priorities.

The door opened, and a plainclothes officer he hadn’t seen before walked in. He uncuffed Xander, handed him a bottle of water, shook his hand.

“Arlen Grant. New Jersey State Police. Seems you’ve had yourself an interesting day.” Grant was tall and lanky, a solid jaw, just this side of forty, hair about to thin but not there yet, with a sleek gray suit and a chunky stainless-steel watch, a Fitbit trainer on the opposite wrist. He had the hungry look of a man who’d lost weight recently, and would do most anything to sink his teeth into a thick steak and fries instead of salad and veggies.

“You could say that.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story, top to bottom, then we’ll talk about your next steps.”

Xander assessed Grant openly. He seemed friendly enough. Almost too friendly. All of Xander’s warning bells went off.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I want to hear the story in your own words, man-to-man. That’s all.”

Xander wasn’t stupid. He saw where this was headed, heard something in Grant’s voice that made him go on alert. He didn’t trust the man.

He hated to do it, because in his capacity as a security agent he’d done his job—protected his principal—but he had to protect himself, too. The facts were indisputable. He’d killed a man, on American soil, in front of a dozen witnesses, with only James Denon and Chalk’s word for it that it wasn’t a well-planned hit. There was no choice, not anymore, not the way Grant was looking at him, like a bird who’s spied a juicy worm across a dew-wet lawn.

“I’ll need a lawyer present, and then I’m happy to tell you the whole story.”

Grant’s expression didn’t change, though he waited for a heartbeat, staring straight into Xander’s eyes. He didn’t say another word, just stood and walked out of the room.

Fuck.

Grant had been expecting the demand. They knew if Xander had half a brain he would lawyer up. Grant had come in as a test.

Ante up.

Xander thought furiously—who was he going to call? He hadn’t exactly kept in close touch with many people since he’d left the Army, just a few Ranger buddies, and they weren’t lawyers. Were they going to keep him here, or take him somewhere else? He’d need to let Sam know.

At the thought of her, he felt his resolve start to crumble. Way to go, man. You’re about to get yourself arrested for murder. Now there’s a phone call to sow marital bliss.

She’d leap into action, he was sure of it. She’d know a good lawyer; she knew everyone, it seemed. And better calling Sam than calling his parents out in Colorado. This wasn’t cow tipping, which was the charge the last time he’d been arrested. Their kindly town sheriff had cuffed him, marched him up the mountain to his parents’ farm and let them mete out the justice, so it wouldn’t go on his record.

Good old Sheriff Houghton. Dead now, but well remembered in Xander’s hometown of Dillon as a great, fair, equitable lawman. Thanks to him, Xander shoveled goat shit for a month.

The door opened, and Grant came back in, a curious look on his face.

“I’m getting my phone call, right?” Xander said.

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a dude on his way here right now, criminal defense hotshot out of New York. Sean Lawhon. Heard of him?”

Xander shook his head.

“Best shark that money can buy. You have a fan in Mr. Denon. He engaged the lawyer’s services on your behalf before you and I ever talked. So. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other until he arrives. Between you and me, I want to stay away from the cameras.”

Great, the media was here. Xander nodded once, curtly. He still needed to call Sam, more so now, before she saw it on TV.

“Am I allowed to make a call?”

“Are you going to talk about the case?”

“Just want to give someone a heads-up. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea.”

“Why don’t we wait for Mr. Lawhon, then you can do whatever you want. I wouldn’t want to trample your rights or anything.” He pulled out his cell phone and began playing a rousing game of solitaire. Judging from the slowness of the clicks, he was losing.