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BREE AND I WERE up and out of our house to run at six on Thursday morning.

We usually put in five miles every other day. It was not only a chance to exercise; it was also a chance to connect and talk about the work to come.

“I’m having a tough time with my new assignment,” Bree said as we ran downhill on the south side of Capitol Hill and onto the sidewalk along Independence Avenue, headed toward the National Mall.

The spring morning was beautiful. Flowering trees and shrubs were in full bloom everywhere you looked on the Capitol grounds.

“This is the assignment you can’t talk about?” I said, trying to ignore the way my knees protested the steep descent.

“That’s the one,” she said. “But I think I can do it without naming names.”

“Handy skill to have.”

“Took years to develop.”

Bree told me she and Bluestone were working for an anonymous client who’d dug up dirt on a major player in the fashion industry.

“What kind of dirt?” I asked.

“I can’t say,” Bree said. “But it’s rough.”

“Why would a major hitter in fashion be involved with something rough?”

“Exactly my reaction,” she said, puffing as we reached the bottom of Capitol Hill and started down the Mall toward the Washington Monument. “But there’s enough on paper to suggest it may be real. There was a lawsuit filed in North Carolina, but it was dismissed and sealed before depositions took place.”

I wiped the sweat off my brow and I thought about that for a few moments. “Why North Carolina?”

“The hitter evidently has relationships with multiple textile and clothing manufacturers there. The two women and one man claim they were coerced with promises that the hitter and friends would help them get a foothold in the modeling or fashion industry. But they said it was a lie, a pretext for the roughness.”

“Reasons for dismissal and seal?”

“That’s unclear and part of why the anonymous client has asked us to investigate. I’ll put in calls this morning to the attorney who sued and see what she remembers about the case.”

“At least you’ll have a better idea of what to believe,” I said. “What else?”

“I’m going up to New York this evening,” Bree said as we took a right on Fourth Street and looped toward the north side of Capitol Hill. “I figure five days to do what I need to do, which means I’ll probably miss Jannie’s big race.”

“I’ll film it,” I said. “Or I can FaceTime you and you can see the whole thing.”

She grinned. “I like that idea better. Ready?”

“Never,” I said, seeing the sidewalk starting to climb ahead of us.

We’ve been doing this route for years, and Capitol Hill still beats me up. My calves were screaming, and I had a stitch in my side when we crested the hill and slowed to a walk at First Street.

“God, that’s steep.” I groaned.

“Never gets easier,” Bree said, panting.

We walked to Second Street and had just started to jog home slowly when my cell rang. Ned Mahoney. We slowed to a walk again.

“We’re out for a run and almost home, Ned,” I said. “Can I call you back in ten?”

“Afraid not, Alex,” Mahoney said. “Family Man struck last night in Alexandria. I need you there, pronto.”

My stomach soured as it had before I’d entered the Carpenters’ home. I hated going into the Family Man’s crime scenes—I feared the multiple victims would be too much for me to process, which meant they’d soon haunt my daydreams and my nightmares.

But I said, “I’ll be there in forty.”

“Make it thirty. I’m calling Sampson,” Ned said and hung up.

“Another one?” Bree asked in concern as I lowered the phone from my ear.

“In Alexandria,” I said, and we broke into a run toward home.

CHAPTER 13

THE FOLLOWING MORNING AROUND ten, I was at the desk I use when I’m working at Metro PD, forcing myself to study the crime scene photographs from the Elliott family home. Sampson sat at the desk opposite me, writing up the case for the murder book that would help us in our part of the overall investigation.

I was able to look at the pictures of forty-three-year-old Tristan Elliott and his thirty-nine-year-old wife, Madonna, with relative dispassion. But those of the children made me want to close my eyes and banish them from my memory.

It was clear from my first moments inside the Elliott house that the crime scene was different. Not only were the Elliotts the first family of color to die by the Family Man’s hand, but these murders had not gone as smoothly as the others.

In the first three cases, the Family Man had managed to sneak in and execute his victims as they slept. But not at the Elliotts’, where we’d found lights on and bodies strewn about the second floor. After Ned, John, and I thoroughly inspected the scene, we came to believe that Tristan Elliott had been in the main bathroom and had surprised the Family Man, who shot him from across the landing, probably right next to the staircase.