Fletcher was engrossed now, all earlier discomfort gone. The philosophy behind life always interested him. “Do you think Nocek feels like that? That it’s more than a job? Is that why you like him so much?”

“Yes, I do. Not all of us see it this way, mind you. But some of us, I think, are searching for something more. Some answer that there is more.”

She realized she’d never said that aloud. But it was true.

“Think about this. You can’t destroy matter. We’re finding that cells live on in the body even after death. Stem cells, for example, can be harvested and used up to seventeen days postmortem. We can take sperm from the dead and use it to make babies. Perhaps more lingers on that we’re not aware of yet.”

“The regeneration talk got you thinking?”

She nodded, played with the ring on her finger. “Scientists have always been fascinated by death, dying and regeneration. It’s not too much of a leap, especially if you think about Cattafi taking tissue samples and the like. By all accounts he’s a brilliant young scientist. It stands to reason he might be experimenting.”

Fletcher shuddered, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. Sam noticed his knuckles were red and slightly bruised, like he’d punched something.

“Sorry. I know that’s a freaky thought.”

“You could say that. Where’s his lab, then? I didn’t see anything in his apartment that seemed capable of experimentation.”

“I didn’t, either. Add that to the list of things we need to track down. Maybe his ex-girlfriend or his family will know. Or maybe he did all his work with Bromley, the virologist at GW. And what was his connection to this undercover FBI agent? I don’t want to make any leaps until we get a better idea of what he was up to.”

“Speaking of leaps, you’re working a case with Baldwin. May I ask?”

“Sure. It’s a bunch of murders no one has ever been able to connect into a real series, save one commonality. All the women are from New Orleans. They’ve been killed in various ways, all over the country, for years. They have wildly different victimologies, multiple MOs. Baldwin thinks they’re linked, though there is nothing forensically tying them together. I’ve been going over the files, and while I can’t see the connection yet, it feels all wrong. Baldwin and I both think this is a serial. And there’s been two new murders in the past month that fit the pattern. The evidence from those scenes might help us pull things together.”

“Gut instinct?”

“Yes. Sometimes it’s the very best way to solve a case.”

And they arrived at the State Department.

* * *

When Fletcher handed over their IDs, they were quickly waved through and given directions on where to park. They were expected.

Sam was starting to understand how the intricacies of the D.C. government systems worked—if you were on the list, you were golden. And if not? Good luck.

They were met in the lobby by a young woman in a black pantsuit, with hip black glasses and white-blond hair slicked back in a ponytail. She was thin and tall and lovely, her accent vaguely Southern in the genteel way of broadcast journalists and character actresses.

“Lieutenant Fletcher, Dr. Owens. I’m Ashleigh Cavort, head of Public Affairs. If you’ll follow me?”

“Georgia?” Sam asked.

Cavort smiled. “You’re good. Dahlonega. Born and raised. You?”

“Nashville. I’ve been to Dahlonega. It’s a sweet little town.”

“Little being the operative word,” Cavort said, ending the conversation. They followed her, winding through the halls, into an elevator, decanting out on the third floor directly into a conference room. Three people were inside, waiting for them.

Cavort got them seated, handed out confidentiality agreements with a knowing shrug—the price of doing business in D.C. was a permanent gag order on everything you learned—brought them coffee while they signed, then took a seat herself and introduced the other three people.

“Shannon Finders, Counterterrorism, Brian de Lete, Narcotics and Law Enforcement, and Jason Kruger, Africa desk. We’re just waiting for Undersecretary Girabaldi, and we’ll get you briefed and out of here.”

Girabaldi. Sam knew Regina Girabaldi’s name. She was head of Arms Control and International Security for State. Her confirmation hearings had been legendary—between being a hardline Republican hawk nominated by a Democrat administration and her former life as a CIA field agent, her nomination had drawn fire from across the board, including a poorly organized march on the Capitol and multitudes of death threats. Sam didn’t get it—the woman was brilliant, and completely dedicated to the country. But Sam stayed the hell out of politics if she could help it. That was a world she didn’t want to understand.

Moments later, the doors opened and a sharp-dressed gray-haired woman stepped through. She wore a Chanel jacket and straight black skirt, expensive but sensible sling-back pumps. Her sheer black hose had a seam directly up the back, enhancing her rather curvy calves, a spot of sexiness in an otherwise conservative display. She wasn’t tall, but carried herself like an Amazon. Sam couldn’t help herself; she sat up straighter when Girabaldi’s appraising eyes fell on her.

Girabaldi nodded to the people from State, nodded to Sam and Fletcher, sat and glanced quickly around the room.

“Where do we stand?”

Brian de Lete, who, despite his elegant name, sounded like he’d rolled off the bus from South Boston with a wicked hangover, spoke up. “As you know, Amanda Souleyret was stabbed to death last night in the home of a young med student named Thomas Cattafi. The cops are calling it a domestic incident. There was a note that read, ‘You made me do this.’ She—”

Girabaldi eyes were black and piercing. She fixed her gaze on de Lete. “What the hell was she doing in the States? She was supposed to be in Paris.”

Jason Kruger stepped in. He seemed to be a grave man, with dark skin and soulful eyes, and an accent Sam had a hard time placing. He moved between American and British and South African, depending on the words he used.

“We think she flew in last night and went straight to Cattafi. As far as we know, she hadn’t been made. She just picked the wrong boyfriend. He killed her, nearly killed himself. It’s a shame, but it’s not related to...” He dropped off, and Sam and Fletcher shared a glance. Fletcher started to interject, but Girabaldi looked at him, held up a hand.

“A moment, please, Lieutenant. Mr. Kruger, do we have records of her being with this young man?” Then, almost to herself, “A lovers’ spat. What a stupid way for her extraordinary life to end.”

“No, ma’am, not entirely.” Kruger tapped a finger on the pad of paper in front of him. “Cattafi isn’t dead, not yet, anyway. We may have a chance to interview him. Find out what she told him that made him go crazy and kill her.”

Sam watched the undersecretary purse her lips and stare out the window. What in the hell was going on here?

Fletcher must have read her mind. He leaned forward. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re misinformed. This was not a murder-suicide. Cattafi did not kill Souleyret. The evidence is quite compelling—they were attacked by a third party. We think the note was a part of the staging of the scene.”

This was news, and Girabaldi ran a hand through her sleek gray bob, clearly distressed. Sam thought she wouldn’t make a very good poker player, which was surprising, given her position. She hadn’t known many politicians who weren’t experts at being able to hide their emotions. Either she had a glass face, or Amanda Souleyret was closer to the undersecretary than they knew.

“You’re saying it wrong,” she snapped. “It’s Souleyret, like Chevrolet. And this is distressing news, very distressing indeed. Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

Heads dropped around the table; her team didn’t like being chastened.