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“Maybe,” I said. “But there were no connections whatsoever between the Hodges family and the Landau family, and I doubt the Carpenter family will break that pattern. What links them? How does he choose his victims? What’s his motivation? We’re no closer to knowing that than we were a year ago when these killings started.”

“Then we need to work harder,” Sampson said, looking down the driveway at a growing crowd of neighbors across the street. “Go back to basics. Pound some shoe leather until something gives.”

“I’m with you,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Mahoney said, “I’m staying put. Let me know what the locals say.”

We walked down the driveway and across the street to the police tape, behind which about twenty people were gathered. The media was being kept off to the left.

Sampson and I knew several of the reporters, and they began shouting at us. But we ignored them, split up, and tried to talk to the neighbors, who were upset and firing more questions at us than we were at them.

When we informed them that the entire Carpenter family was gone, several of the women broke down sobbing. Carrie Baldwin, who lived up the street and claimed she and Sue Carpenter had been BFFs, almost fainted in her husband’s arms when we confirmed that Alan had also been murdered in cold blood.

“Our son’s going to be devastated,” Carrie said when she’d calmed down enough to talk. “Stuart has special needs too. They … they were the best of pals.”

“Any reason someone would target the family for murder like this?” I asked.

“Sue was a saint,” Carrie said, genuinely bewildered. “When my Stuart was born, she was the first one who reached out. She was always like that, looking out for others. People loved that family, all of them.”

Baldwin’s husband, Max, tilted his head and said, “Well, for the most part.”

I looked at him. He was dressed for a tennis outing. “How’s that?”

“Roger was a high-dollar divorce attorney,” Max said. “Super-nice dude here at home, but he had a reputation for tearing husbands’ throats out in family court.”

“Max!” his wife said. “Don’t speak ill of the dead!”

“Hey, it’s true, Carrie,” Max said. “Two guys in my office? Their ex-wives hired Roger. They said dealing with him was like being examined by an angry proctologist.”

“What?” his wife said.

“Think about it a little, Carrie,” Max said. He turned to me. “You want a list of suspects? Start looking at all the poor bastards Carpenter took to the cleaners.”

CHAPTER 5

THE WEATHER COULD NOT have been more perfect for a mid-April evening: temperature in the mid-seventies, low humidity. My wife, Bree Stone, and I decided to sit out on the front porch until dinner.

Bree used to be the chief of detectives for Metro PD and now worked for a private security company. Along with Sampson and Mahoney, Bree was who I went to when I was trying to figure out a case or when I wanted a different perspective on things.

After I’d described the investigation’s initial findings, Bree said, “It’s a little extreme to kill an entire family because of a lousy divorce settlement, don’t you think?”

“More than extreme,” I said. “And my gut says that’s not the motive for these killings. There’s no link that I know of to a bad divorce or divorce attorney in the Hodges or the Landau cases. Hodges was a petroleum lobbyist. Landau was a pilot for Delta.”

“What about the wives?” Bree asked.

“Mrs. Carpenter was evidently devoted to her children and did volunteer work, a pillar of the community. Mrs. Hodges taught school in Falls Church. Mrs. Landau was a CPA in DC. If there’s a common link, I’m not seeing it.”

From behind the blooming vines that shielded one end of the porch, a voice called out, “Maybe it’s their kids, Dad.”

Bree moaned her displeasure.

“Ali?” I said, crossing my arms.

My youngest came around where we could see him. Smiling, his dirty hands chopping the air, he said, “Think about it! They probably went to the same summer camp or had swimming lessons together, or maybe they were in the same Sunday school. I’m telling you, it’s the kids.”

Bree, who did not approve of Ali’s obsessive interest in our cases, said, “How long have you been eavesdropping, young man?”

Ali’s face fell. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“What would you call it?” I asked.

“Weeding Nana Mama’s herb garden like she asked me to?”

I looked at Bree, who sighed.

I said, “You know the cases we work on are confidential.”

Ali nodded. “I’m not telling anyone anything.”

“That’s not really the point, pal,” I said. “I’d be in a heap of trouble if it got out at the Bureau or inside Metro that I shared information about an ongoing case with a ten-year-old, even one as sharp as you.”

He frowned. “I’m almost eleven. And you’re saying I shouldn’t weed for Nana?”

“No, we’re not,” Bree said. “But if you hear us talking in the future, do the right thing and let us know you’re there, please.”

Ali brightened a little. “I can do that.”

Before we could add anything, the front door opened, and my ninety-something grandmother peered out at us.