CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.
Metro Homicide
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam tried not to yawn. It had been an exhausting day, and it was now two in the morning.

The disk Taranto had given to her was confusing, at best. It seemed to be a video taken of a nighttime military raid, but it wasn’t marked. She had to assume it was Afghanistan. The video had been shot through night vision from above the scene, probably from a Predator drone or Apache helicopter. The screen was grainy and bobbing, and looked something like a video game crossed with a science-fiction movie. Globs of green-shaped soldiers moved through a blackened backdrop, five of them, spreading out in a fan, converging into a single file line, then stopping. Friendlies. Two blobs headed off on their own while the remaining three stayed stationary. Then one blob stopped moving, and its partner walked off in a totally different direction, looping back to the main group. As he got close to the cluster of soldiers, there was a sudden scramble and flashes of light from the right, which Sam took to be shooting. Pandemonium looks the same through night vision as it does in daylight. People started running all over the place, traces of light shot through the air. The single blob on its own didn’t move again, didn’t engage in the firefight. It seemed he’d gone down before the shooting started.

The whole video took forty minutes. It gave Sam a vicious headache, trying to decipher what was happening. But she, Fletcher and Roosevelt agreed: this had to be the friendly fire incident.

It was going to take a bunch more research to find out what was going on, that was for sure. Inquiries were being made at DOD, but it was going to take some time to get people to talk. If the Army had covered up this incident, they would hardly parade out and tell what really happened, not without a lot of pressure from multiple sources. Taranto had put in a FOIA request, but DOD could take months to comply, and now that the requesting party was dead …

When the video was done, they’d dissected it to death, and Roosevelt had left for the night, Fletcher brought her a cup of coffee.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I have no idea, outside of the obvious. That lead soldier went down before the big firefight took place.”

“Right. Problem is, this video has no identifying features. Nothing that can tell us when or where the shooting took place. It could be a complete fake for all we know, doctored, anything. Without Taranto to tell us what we’re looking at so we can at least pressure DOD … It’s going to be hard to get the info from them, anyway. Not like they’re going to say, Oh, hi, you’re looking for this? Be our guests, here you go.’”

“Not only that, it could be of another situation wholly unrelated to Donovan and Perry Fisher.”

“You’re right.”

“How’s your arm?”

Fletcher sighed. “Honestly? It hurts like absolute hell.”

“Did you take the painkillers the E.R. Doc gave you?”

“No. I’ll never stay awake.”

“You need some rest. Why don’t we head home and start fresh in the morning?”

“I can’t let you.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“You’re safer here. Someone tried to kill you tonight. They managed to get to Taranto. Or had you forgotten?”

She hadn’t. The knowledge was weighing on her mightily, but she didn’t want to give in to the fear. She’d spent the past two years jumping at shadows, locked in her own torturous nightmare. As horrible as it was to say, she felt alive for the first time in a very long time.

“I haven’t. But without sleep, neither of us will be able to function. Speaking of Taranto, do you want me to attend the post? I’m sure I can call Dr. Nocek and ask.”

“No. I want you with me. We’re going to Savage River at first light. We’re going to go get Whitfield.”

“Roosevelt’s going to let me go with you?”

“You’re going to have to sign some forms. Basically saying if you get killed, the department isn’t responsible. But if you’re willing to do that, then yes, he said you can go. It’s against his better judgment, but he understands. We won’t be going alone, though. We have a whole team, a couple of SWAT guys, the works. For your safety as well as the safety of Alexander Whitfield.”

“Assuming we find him.”

“Which is why I was able to convince Roosevelt to let you come. I think Whitfield will show for you. He chose you at Donovan’s funeral. He gave you the means to break loose the real story. We roll in there guns blazing and this guy will rabbit.”

“So I’m just bait.”

“Maybe.” Fletcher moved too quickly and winced.

“Poor baby. Let’s at least put some ice on it. Where’s your kitchen?”

She got him set up, then he showed her the sleeping arrangements he’d organized. There was a cot in his office, made up with a gray blanket that had a large orange safety stripe down the middle. Fluorescent orange, at that. Just her color.

“Thank you. So you’re going home?”

“No. Roosevelt decreed that I stay here, too.”

“Here? Where will you sleep?”

“Locker room. There are a few bunks in there, just in case one of us pulls an all-nighter and needs some rack time. I’ve done it before—it’s not so bad. Just lock the door to my office once I leave, okay? Just in case.”

“All right. I’ll see you in a few hours. Take the pain medicine, okay?” She touched him briefly on the cheek. “Thank you for saving my life.”

He smiled, and she noticed how that simple act transformed his tired face. “You’re welcome. Get some rest.”

He turned to leave, then stopped. “Sam … I …”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Sleep well.”

“You, too, Fletch.”

She shut and locked the door behind him, then lay down on the cot. As tired as she was, sleep was the last thing on her mind. She needed to call Eleanor and let her know what was going on, but she hated to run the risk of waking her. Like Sam, Eleanor didn’t sleep well, but Susan and the girls were at the house. She didn’t want to wake them up, either. She put it on her mental checklist to do in the morning and rolled onto her side.

Tomorrow she might meet the mysterious Xander, and find out why Donovan had been killed.

Was she ready?

Because it was looking more and more like Donovan was involved in something less than savory. And she didn’t want her memories of him to be sullied.

She didn’t want her memories, period.