Another quick pat on the rear, and she was in.

And she was on her own. She needed a new phone. Hers had been wiped by the EMP, as had the ones around her, which meant her spare was shot, too. But that could wait until she had a look around Bromley’s offices. She had to hurry, though. There was nothing she could do if someone figured out she’d been the source of the EMP, and the cops would show up here soon enough, especially if they’d already connected the two men from Mandy’s town house to the murder.

She went to the sixth floor, walked past the OB/GYN offices and into the stairwell. Down two flights, fast, boots rattling on the stairs, to the fourth floor.

The door was plain, nothing inviting about it. And locked. Not a problem. She slipped a tensioner into the lock, wiggled the twist flex into place...and the lock popped. It took ten seconds. She was rusty.

The lights were off, so she didn’t touch them, just pulled a small penlight from her bag and hurried into the gloom. The place was empty. She gave that a passing thought, wondering why. Lola said this was a private lab, but she’d expected at least one or two more people. Maybe he did his work completely alone? No, he’d worked with Cattafi. Surely there were other people around; the suite itself had several doors and the hallway angled off into another section of the floor. But it wasn’t big enough to house much, which seemed odd to her. Maybe these were administrative offices, and the real lab work was done elsewhere. There simply weren’t enough precautions in place here.

She prowled around, looking at the setup, confident she was right. This wasn’t the real lab; this was for show-and-tell. Probably for investors and others Bromley would need to impress to fund his work.

Still, the silence was eerie, and she drew her weapon.

She found Bromley in the third room, off a small lab, slumped against a gray metal filing cabinet. Very dead. A neat job of it, too. Close range, shot through the right temple, the bullet spoiling what she assumed was his magnificent brain. She took another step closer. The gun, a .9 mm subcompact Smith & Wesson, was in his right hand, his arms sprawled out carelessly against the floor.

He’d killed himself.

She touched his neck briefly; his skin was pliant, his muscles loose and slack. He was completely out of rigor—and he was fully dressed. She couldn’t check the lividity without disturbing the body, but the blood and matter on the cabinet and wall behind him told enough of the story. He’d been shot here. Not moved.

She was beginning to see a pattern. People around her sister were being systematically killed, and every one of them was supposed to look like a suicide. And more importantly, it looked like the kids on the Hill and the doctor had been taken out before Amanda was murdered.

She looked around, moving quickly, until she found the note.

Do I have your attention yet?

Jesus.

They’d been driving Amanda. She must have been on the run, and she must have holed up with Cattafi. A mistake that had cost her her life. But where else would she have gone?

To me. She could have come to me.

Robin pushed the thought away. It was too late for regrets.

Three different MOs—poison, shooting, stabbing—told Robin there was more than one killer out there. Multiple killers, with multiple targets, and all with a message. But who were the messages meant for? And what the hell had they been searching for? Had they found it when they found Amanda? Was she the end of the deaths?

With a sigh, Robin went into the small lab itself. It hadn’t been ransacked, but there were clear signs someone had done a thorough search. She knew enough scientists to know they weren’t all neat, but Bromley was. Everything had a place, and by the dust patterns, she could see what was missing. A computer for sure; there was a wireless mouse sitting alone on the right of the desk. The filing cabinet drawers were askew; on closer inspection, there was a large chunk of files missing from the well-organized G-I drawer.

So they were looking for something specific.

And now there were four dead that she knew of, one clinging to life. Who knew how many others?

The email came back to her: Did you get it in?

No response from Amanda. There wouldn’t have been; she was already dead. And whoever killed her had called Robin’s number.

Her sister had pissed someone off, and they were making sure there were no threads left behind. Which meant Robin needed to be a little more careful.

She searched the drawers, found nothing else of use. She wished she could use the phone, call Lola, but that would be an idiotic move. It would be traced, and then she’d be screwed.

She glanced out the window. The sun had finally broken out; there was a fine mist of condensation on the glass. It was time to start crunching data, see what they could come up with. Someone was following a rather clear path. Robin just needed to find out what path that was.

She turned to leave and walked into the barrel of a gun.

Chapter 35

Falls Church, Virginia

BEAUTY WAS WATCHING television when he heard the car. There had been little traffic since he moved in, one of the reasons he’d chosen this place. He went on alert, strode to the window. It was a cop. He wasn’t in uniform—a detective, then—but there was no mistaking the demeanor. Cocky, arrogant, owned the world. He was a big meaty one, too, with arms the size of tree trunks and thick legs straining against his dark pants.

The cop took off his sunglasses and glanced toward the house. His hair was cut short and tight across his skull, his mouth was cruel. He held a red folder in his hands. Another patrol car slid up behind the unmarked, and two more cops got out. As they conferred among themselves, he felt the panic begin to rise.

Oh, God. They’d found him, already. He thought he’d have more time. He thought so many things.

The gun was in the cookie cabinet above the refrigerator. It was a nothing piece, one he’d picked up in Little Rock, a pearl-handled .22. It would do the job, though, if he positioned it in the right place. Just to the inside corner of his right eye, angled in twenty-five degrees. That should do it. He wasn’t going to go back to jail yet. Not until he was damn good and ready, too old to lift a knife or get it up without pills.

He was breathing heavily; the very idea of this being it had frozen him in place. He had a plan. He wanted last meals and priests and television cameras and families surrounding him at the end. But it was too soon; he wasn’t finished. He had so much more to do.

A deep breath shook him, and rational thought returned.

Would they send a lone detective to arrest him? One that would let himself be seen? No. If they had any idea, they’d have sent their SWAT team. Maybe this wasn’t what he thought. Maybe they wanted something else.

There was a knock at the door. He propelled himself into motion, jumped across the room, grabbed the gun from its hiding place, stuck it in the waistband of his jeans, in the small of his back, where he could feel the metal growing hot and slick against his skin.

The knocking sounded again.

Breathe, cher. Breathe.

He turned up the burner under the potpourri on the stove, making sure the scent of cinnamon and apples was strong, then went to the door and opened it.

“Yes?”

The cop looked surprised. Most people did upon meeting him. The blessing and the curse that gave him his true name. He stifled a giggle. He did so love to see first reactions.

The cop’s voice was deep, mellifluous. He’d have done well with voice-over work. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Mr. Toliver Pryce.”

“Yes, that’s me. Is there a problem, Officer?”