CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam left Old Ebbitt’s, crossed the street and walked toward the White House, then turned into Lafayette Square. It was strange not to have cars passing by. Pennsylvania Avenue had been turned into a walking mall several years before, a security measure probably long overdue. She crossed the park, pausing only once to glance over her shoulder at the luminous building that hosted the leader of the free world.

That symbol of freedom was the very thing Donovan and his friends were fighting for. So why did she feel an ominous chill looking at the building, beautifully lit against the darkened sky? Was it the shadow of a sniper on the roof, one of many who kept vigilant watch over the White House environs? Or the knowledge that Donovan had done the very same thing, securing points of importance or interest, trying to spread the message of freedom and democracy to an inhospitable place through force and cajoling? The pen was mightier than the sword, but it wasn’t mightier than an M16 wielded by a very capable operator. A sledgehammer to the process, perhaps, one that got the point across rather bluntly, but it was much quicker than diplomacy.

She felt eyes on her and sped up her pace. There were still homeless who slept in this park, though they’d be rousted and moved if they got in the way of sightseers. But this felt more aggressive, and she walked as fast as she could without looking obvious, the heels of her shoes tapping across the concrete. She heard another set of footfalls behind her, and glimpsed a shadow gaining on her position. The steps grew heavier, closer, and she broke into a run.

Taranto wasn’t kidding. The information he’d given her must have been inflammatory. She passed the Hay Adams Hotel at a sprint, saw the doormen giving her a look. She reached K Street and turned left abruptly, her heels skidding a little on the concrete sidewalk.

Fletcher and Hart were waiting, engine idling. She scrambled into the backseat of the unmarked and said, “Go. Someone’s following me.”

They didn’t move, just slid their weapons from their holsters and started checking the mirrors.

“Lay down,” Fletcher told her.

“Shit,” Sam said, sliding down in the backseat. “Do you see anything?”

“No one that looks suspicious. Hart, you got anything?”

Hart shook his head. “No. Nothing unusual. Just some folks out enjoying the night air. You sure you were followed?”

Sam thought about that shadow, growing closer, felt the chill move through her body again, and crouched lower in the seat.

“It certainly felt that way. When I sped up, so did he. The silhouette was big, definitely a man. That’s all I saw, though, before I took off. I’m afraid I may have panicked a bit.”

Fletcher reached over the seat and patted her arm.

“That’s all right. We knew the risk we were taking sending you in to talk to Taranto instead of one of us. Didn’t think you’d be followed, though. That makes it kind of interesting, don’t you think?”

Hart said, “Check your six.”

Sam saw the shadow from Fletcher’s head move slightly. She realized she was holding her breath.

“Big guy, moving north?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. He just met some chick coming up from the Metro. They’re heading out arm in arm.”

Fletcher looked over the seat at Sam, who was still crouched down out of sight, and smiled.

She shot him the bird and he laughed, a sound she was surprised to hear was incredibly joyous. She didn’t see that they were in a position to celebrate, not just yet.

“Let’s loop back down to the restaurant, though I’m sure Taranto managed to get himself out of there just fine. You certainly had him on edge. I may have to hire you as a full-time stool pigeon. Scotch” Fletcher steered the car away from the curb, doing a wide U-turn. Sam felt her breath begin to ease.

“Can I sit up?”

“Give it a ten count, so we’re clear of the park, then yeah. Go for it. You can get that mike off, too.”

Sam waited a few moments, then raised herself off the seats and smoothed back her hair. She felt foolish for panicking. The footsteps and shadow were most likely just another reveler cutting through the park on his way to the Metro stop.

There was a reason she worked with the dead, under the cold gleam of fluorescent lights, a sharpened scalpel and a set of Henckels knives her only weapons. Wait until she told Taylor this story. Her best friend would laugh her out of the room.

Fletcher glanced back at her. “So Taranto gave you something, outside of the golden nuggets we heard? Great job getting him to fall for that, by the way. You really did well.”

Sam shook the folder. “Thank you.”

“Welcome. And careful, be sure you turn the mike off before you untape it. Don’t break it. They’ll have my head.”

She untaped the transmitter and battery pack from the small of her back, and the mike from between her breasts. The transmitter wasn’t bigger than a deck of cards. Very discreet.

That was a close one. She imagined the audio would have a clear recording of her heartbeat going absolutely wild at the beginning there, when she played dumb. She finished and got her shirt wrestled back down, caught Fletcher eyeing her in the rearview.

“Enjoy the show?”

“I did.”

She shook her head. “File doesn’t feel too thick. Gino is scared, though. You heard the end, right? He was the one who broke into Donovan’s house. He’s been working with Perry Fisher’s wife, Karen. He has her hidden away until he thinks things are safe.”

Fletcher asked, “So what’s in the folder?”

“Let’s see. He said I was the insurance policy, so it must be something inflammatory.” Sam flipped open the folder, pushed the overhead light above her right shoulder. The pages inside were blank, but something thin fell out into her lap. A CD in a clear sleeve.

“There’s a disc in here.” She flipped it to and fro. “No writing on it. We need to get to a computer and take a look, see what this is.”

“Hart’s laptop is in the trunk. Just hang on a second while I pull over.”

Fletcher steered the car to the curb, and Hart hopped out before the car had come to a complete stop.

Fletcher turned to Sam. “So whaddaya say we—”

Sam heard the strangest noise. A dull thunk. The car moved slightly.

“Did you hear that?” she said, just as Fletcher’s head swiveled and he screamed, “Get down!” His door flew open and he dived sideways from the car. She saw him land on the sidewalk, roll and start firing behind them, his weapon discharging again and again. She could hear him shouting, calling for Hart, and she huddled in the backseat, her heart beating a mile a minute, praying. There was a sudden burst of fire behind them, what sounded like an automatic weapon, and the car shook from the volley. She couldn’t be safe in here. And they couldn’t be safe out there.

Sam started to move, to where she didn’t know, and heard Fletcher shouting, “Radio, radio—Sam, get on the radio. We need backup!”

She slithered over the front seat and, lying flat against the leather, grabbed for the radio mounted on the dash.

“We need help!” she yelled. She didn’t know the codes, all the cop speak, so she went for logic instead. “Detectives Fletcher and Hart and Dr. Samantha Owens. We are on KStreet, three blocks south of Lafayette Park, under fire—I repeat, we are taking fire. Someone is shooting at us, and the detectives are returning fire. Please send someone.”

Sam unkeyed the mike, heard a torrent of words and static. A woman’s voice said, “Repeat, repeat,” and Sam shouted all the information again, looking over her shoulder. The shooting had stopped, but that didn’t mean the danger was over. She saw Fletcher run to the passenger’s side of the car. He came to the passenger window and yelled, “Ambulance,” through the glass. He had blood on his shirt, she didn’t know from whom, him or Hart. Oh, my God. One of them had been shot.

Sadly, that call was one she knew how to make. She keyed the mike again. “Officer down. We need an ambulance sent to the shooting on K Street. I repeat, officer down.”

She dropped the radio and flew out of the car. Fletcher was at the back bumper, kneeling over Hart, who wasn’t moving.

The fear left her immediately. Finally, something she could do to help. Sam pushed Fletcher away from Hart’s body. “Let me see him. Where’s he hit?”

“I don’t know,” Fletcher yelled. “He has on a vest, so the blood’s coming from somewhere else.”

She dropped to her knees, pulled Fletcher away from his partner. Hart was canted to the side facing her, like he’d taken the shot upright, then slid down the car. There was blood everywhere.

“Fletch, take a breath. Get me your Maglite.” She started running her hands over Hart’s body, feeling for an entrance wound.

Fletcher grabbed his Mag from the front seat, then scrambled back around the car and shone the beam on his partner, waving it frantically up and down his body.

Sam pointed at Hart’s head, and spoke as calmly as she could. “Fletch. Slow. Start here, at the top.”

The wound was in the base of Hart’s throat, an inch above the notch where the bulletproof vest cradled his collarbones and an inch to the right. Sirens sounded, drawing closer. But there was so much blood … She didn’t think there was time. He wasn’t breathing, and his pulse faded out under her fingertips. His airway was constricted from the bullet’s explosion. She didn’t think it had severed his windpipe, just that the trauma was causing swelling and blood was filling the field.

Regardless, they had to get him started again.

Sam laid Hart down, tilted his head back and gave him three quick breaths, happy to see his chest rise from her blows. She started chest compressions. “Do you have a defibrillator in the car?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher was white as a ghost. He didn’t have to be asked twice, he ran to the trunk and grabbed the portable unit. Fletcher had calmed, his training taking over, and as Sam lifted her hands off his partner’s chest, he unstrapped Hart’s vest. It only took a moment, then they both ripped at his shirt. Fletcher handed Sam the unit and she got it going, attaching the leads while it charged. She bent and gave him three more quick breaths, then two long ones.

“It’s ready. Clear,” Fletcher said, and hit the button.

A shock wave of electricity coursed through Hart’s body, making his heart jump in time. Sam put her fingers on his carotid. There was a single pulse, then it stopped.

“Again,” she said, hitting the button herself this time. The unit whined as it charged and Sam felt the moments slipping away. Jesus, this was why she didn’t work on live people, she was afraid to lose them …. Breathe, you dummy, breathe.

“Ready. Clear.”

Fletcher hit the button and Hart’s body rose, his back arched. When it settled, Sam sat with her eyes closed, willing his heart to start. It did. She felt the pulse skip under her fingers, and then the paramedics were there. She stepped back and let them work. They slapped a mask on him and hyperventilated his lungs. When they stopped Hart’s chest rose of its own accord.

She stepped back and directly into Fletcher, who clutched on to her. “It worked?” he whispered.

“Yes. For now,” she answered.

“Thank you.”

She turned away from Hart, looked up at Fletcher. “What the hell?”

Fletcher shook his head, pointed at the car. They’d been hit at least six times, with Hart taking a shot, as well.

“If we hadn’t stopped …”

“They were behind us. He, I think, I only saw one. If we hadn’t stopped, they might have hit all of us, driven right up beside us and shot … Fuck.”

Fletcher weaved for a second, then sat down abruptly in the street crossed-legged.

Sam kneeled next to him. “Are you hit?”

“Yeah, I think so. No. I don’t know.”

“Where does it hurt?”

He pointed to his left arm. Sam thought that blood was Hart’s. She lifted Fletcher’s left hand gently, saw the tear in the fabric just above his elbow. He was wearing a white button-down—it was soaked nearly black in this spot.

“Hang tight, I’ve got to cut your sleeve off.”

He nodded and she went to the paramedics, who were sitting back on their heels over Hart, looking quite satisfied with themselves.

“He gonna be okay?” she asked.

A skinny guy with a flattop turned to her and nodded. “Yeah. You did good, getting him back in sinus. Where’d you learn that?”

“Georgetown Med. His partner’s hit, too. Can I borrow you?”

“Sure, Doc. Lead the way.”

She took him back to Fletcher. He was talking blankly to a large African-American man with a holster on his hip. As she drew closer she realized he was listening, not talking.

“The fuck you doing, Fletch? Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were gonna get shot tonight?”

“I’m shot?”

“He’s in shock,” Sam said to the man, rather unnecessarily. The paramedic excused himself and barreled in between the two of them, dropping to his knees and tearing Fletcher’s sleeve open. The wound was raw, but didn’t look life-threatening.

Sam turned to the newest addition to the scene. “And you are?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Captain Fred Roosevelt. Who are you?”

“Dr. Samantha Owens. You’re Fletcher’s boss?”

“Yes, ma’am. What in the hell is going on here? He tried to tell me, but you interrupted. Good thing you did, idiot didn’t say he’d been hit.”

Roosevelt looked both worried and like he wanted to boot Fletcher in the ass. It was menacingly sweet.

“It’s a through-and-through. He’s gonna be fine. Other guy’s gonna be okay, too. Good thing they had a doctor in the car with them,” the paramedic chimed in.

Roosevelt’s eyes closed briefly, then opened and focused intensely on Sam’s. “Good. Now talk.”

Sam took a deep breath. “It’s a long story. We are investigating a lead from the Edward Donovan murder case.”

“We.” Roosevelt’s tone cooled immeasurably. “We being you, Fletcher and Hart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why, pray tell, is a civilian working a murder investigation in my town? Not only that, but without my authorization?”

“I’m not entirely a civilian. I’m a chief medical examiner, from Nashville. I’ve been around—”

“Cap, I asked her to help,” Fletcher groaned from somewhere behind Roosevelt’s meaty calves.

Roosevelt tore his laser gaze from Sam and directed it on Fletcher. “You asked her to help. Did you think you might want to clue me in that you’ve got some fucking chick riding along with you on a case? Or did that slip your mind?”

Roosevelt proceeded to dress down Fletcher, using some of the more colorful language Sam hadn’t heard in years. She might have enjoyed the show had she not been covered in the blood of two men—men she was becoming rather fond of—one of which was being loaded into an ambulance, the other who was sitting on the hard pavement with a bloody bandage wrapped around his arm, his pants and shirt soaked in his own and his partner’s gore.

Sam got right up close to Roosevelt and held her bloody, sticky hands in front of his face.

“Excuse me, Captain Roosevelt? Do you mind if I wash my hands? It’s been a long night.”

He took a step back and stopped yelling. Her point was made.

Fletcher tossed her a look of gratitude, and she smiled at him. He had saved her life tonight. They’d forged a bond that would be hard to tear asunder.