I was surprised but not shocked. Ryan Willoughby was the six o'clock anchor for a network TV affiliate here in the Washington area.

"Esperanza, if you and I were actually having this conversation, I could tell you, but given as how we never spoke today -"

"Yeah, yeah, story of my life, Alex. What's the next number?"

In a few minutes, I had a list of fifteen names. Six of them were familiar to me, including a sitting congressman, a professional football player, and the CEO of a high-profile energy-consulting firm in town. This thing was starting to bubble over, and not in a good way. When I thought about how these men knew Caroline, it made me sick, physically ill.

My next call was to Bree. She recognized two more of the names. One was a partner at Brainard & Truss, a political PR firm on the Hill; and it turned out that Randy Varrick, who was the mayor's press secretary, was a woman.

"Things are about to get real nasty around here," Bree said. "These are high-resource people, and I'm afraid they're going to push back hard."

"Let them push," I said. "We'll be ready for them. In fact, I'm going to make my first call right now. In person."

HIGH-RESOURCE PEOPLE, and apparently a lot of them were involved. What was this about, and how had it led to the death of Caroline Cross? Where else would it lead?

It took me less than fifteen minutes to get from the Daly Building on Indiana up to Channel Nine's offices on Wisconsin. By the time I got there, I hadn't cooled down one bit. My badge got me past the guard in the lobby, then up to a receptionist on the third floor. A big number 9 hung on the wall behind her, along with poster-sized head shots of their news team.

I showed my badge and pointed at the wall. "I'm looking for him."

She pushed a button without taking her eyes off me. "Judy? I've got a police officer out here for Ryan?"

She covered the receiver and spoke to me. "What is this regarding?"

"Tell him I'll be happy to share that information with anyone who wants to listen if he and I aren't face-to-face in the next two minutes."

"About ninety seconds later, I was ushered past reception, past the news studio entrance, and into a hall of windowed offices someplace in the back. Ryan Willoughby was waiting for me, looking like his tie was a little too tight. I'd seen him dozens of times delivering the news, but now all that polished blond congeniality of his was nowhere in sight.

"What the hell is this about?" he asked me, after he closed the door. "You come barging in here like Eliot Ness, or Rudolph Giuliani back in his prosecutor days."

I held up a picture of Caroline. "It's about her," I said in the quietest voice I could manage.

It took him a second, but I saw a flash of recognition on his face, then a fast recovery. He was brighter than he seemed.

"Pretty girl. Who is she?"

"Are you saying you've never seen her before?"

He laughed defensively, and a little more of the anchorspeak came into his voice. "Do I need a lawyer here?"

"We found your phone number in her apartment. She was murdered."

"I'm sorry about that, the girl's murder. A lot of people have my number. Or they can get it."

"A lot of call girls?" I asked.

"Listen, I don't know what you want with me, but this is obviously some kind of mistake."

Whatever he was publicly, this guy was nothing but a scumbag to me now. It was clear he didn't care about Caroline and what had happened to her.

"She was twenty-four," I said.

I held up the picture again.

"Someone took bites out of her. Probably raped her before they killed her. Then they put her body through a wood chipper. We found what was left of her – the remains – in a plastic bag being transported by a mob guy."

"What are you… Why are you telling me this? I don't know the girl."

I looked at my watch. "I'm going to offer you a deal, Ryan. The terms are good for the next thirty seconds. You tell me how you found out about her, right now, and I leave your name out of my investigation. Unless, of course, you're guilty of something a lot more damaging than procuring."

"Is that a threat?"

"Twenty seconds."

"Even if I had any idea what you were talking about, how do I know you are who you say you are?"

"You don't. Fifteen seconds."

"Excuse me, Detective, but you can go to hell."

My hand was cocked, but I caught myself. Willoughby flinched and took a step back.

"Get out of my office, unless you want me to have you thrown out."

I waited until the full thirty seconds were up.

"I'll see you on the news," I said. "Trust me, you won't be the one delivering it."

TWENTY MILES OF thick, old-growth Virginia forest separated Remy Williams's cabin from pretty much everything else in the world. It was a pristine bit of wilderness with all the privacy he could ever want. A person could scream all night long out here and never be heard.

Not that there ever was much screaming or carrying on out here. Remy appreciated efficiency, and he was good at what he did.

Disposal.

The thing he didn't like was surprises – like the bright headlights that raked back and forth over his cabin window just after darkness fell that night.

In a few seconds, he was out the back door with one of the three Remington 870 shotguns he kept around for exactly this reason – uninvited visitors. He hustled over to the side of the cabin and took up a position with a perfect view of the dark-colored sedan that was just coming to a stop out front.

He saw that the vehicle was a Pontiac sedan, either black or dark blue.

Two men got out. "Anybody home?" one of them called. The voice was familiar, but Remy kept the Remington on his hip anyway.

"What are you doing out here?" he yelled to them. "Nobody called ahead."

Their shadows turned toward him in the dark. "Relax, Remy. We found him."

"Alive?"

"At the moment."

Remy slowly came around to the porch and traded the shotgun for a battery-powered lantern, which he lit.

"What about the other one? The girl who run off?"

"Still working on it," said the cocky one, the white guy. Remy didn't know either of their names and didn't want to. He knew the spic was the smart one, though, and the most dangerous. Silent but deadly all the way.

He walked to the back of the car and thumped on the trunk with his lantern.

"Pop it."

THE YOUNG PUNK inside was naked as a newborn, half-wrapped in a soiled bedsheet with a double dose of duct tape twisted across his mouth. As soon he as laid eyes on Remy, he started scrambling around like there was somewhere inside that trunk he could go and hide.

"Why in hell's he not wearing anything? What's the point in that?"

"He was banging some girl when we found him."

"And she's -?"

"Been taken care of."

"Awww, you should have brought her to me for safekeeping too."

Remy turned back to the kid, who'd gone still again – - except for the eyes. Those never stopped moving.

"He's a funny little gerbil, isn't he?"

He reached down and pulled the boy up, then spun him around so the punk could see the twenty-year-old wood chipper in the car's headlights.

"Now, you know why you're here, so I won't quibble on the details," he said. "I just need to know one thing from you, and I want you to think real careful about this. You ever tell anyone about this place? Anyone a'tall?"

The kid shook his head way more than he needed to – no, no, no, no, no.

"You're real sure about that, son? You wouldn't lie to me? 'Specially now?"

The head changed direction and went yes, yes, yes.