Bree and I walked out on the terrace together.

“So, he’s got every opportunity to kill her in private, but he marches her out here, throws her off the balcony instead,” Bree said, talking more to herself than to anyone else. “That is so messed up. I don’t know where to go with it.”

I looked out at the view-a couple of other luxury apartment buildings across the street; the National Zoo down a bit to the left; more trees than you would see in most big cities. Very pretty, actually-the twinkling lights at night, the patches of dark green dramatically lit.

Straight below us was the U-shaped driveway, a working fountain, and a wide sidewalk out front. Plus hundreds of spectators.

Then something hit me. Or, rather, something I suspected suddenly felt true enough to say out loud.

“He didn’t know her personally, Bree. I don’t think so. That’s not what this is about.”

Bree turned and looked at me. “Keep going.”

“He didn’t kill her personally, if that makes any sense. What I mean is that this was a public execution right from the start. It was all about having an audience. He wanted as many people as possible to watch him kill her. This was a performance. The killer came here to put on a show. At some point, he may have even stood down there and picked this terrace out for the murder.”

AND THEN THERE WERE three of us.

My friend Sampson had walked into the living room, all six foot nine, 240 pounds of him. I knew Sampson was probably surprised to see me, but he played it deadpan, the usual for the Big Man.

“You looking to rent?” he asked. “Place is available, from what I hear. Probably go cheap after today.”

“Just passing through. Neighborhood’s a little too rich for my pocketbook.”

“Passing through doesn’t pay the same as consulting, sugar. You need a better business plan.”

“So what have you got, John?” Bree asked. She called him John; I’d been calling him Sampson since we were kids. Both ways worked fine, though.

“Nobody seemed to notice our boy come in or out of the building. As we speak, they’re running all of today’s surveillance tapes. Such as it goes, this place is fairly tight, securitywise. Unless he can walk through walls, I’ll bet he’s going to show up somewhere on one of the tapes.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think this one minds having his picture taken,” I said.

Just then, a uniformed cop called from across the room. “Excuse me, Detective?”

All three of us turned.

“Uh, ma’am? Detective Stone? There’s a question for you. From CSI in the back room.”

The three of us followed the uniform down a narrow hallway into a den. It was lined with more books, and French litho-graphs in expensive-looking frames, plus several vacation photos. The apartment seemed to have quality furnishings everywhere-everything highly polished, oiled, or fluffed. A cardboard box full of liquor delivered from Cleveland Park was sitting by the door. Was the killer the delivery guy? Was that how he got in here?

A tapestry love seat was arranged in the corner, along with a television on a console. The cabinet doors were open to show a combination DVD player and VCR underneath.

I noticed another Hallmark greeting card on a shelf. I looked, and this card was also unsigned.

“Somebody should maybe bag these greeting cards, Bree. Unsigned. Could be nothing. But there was another one in the living room.”

A young woman in a crime-scene Windbreaker was waiting for us by the TV. “Over here, Detective.”

“What am I looking at?” Bree asked.

“Maybe nothing… but there’s a tape in the player. No other videos on display in the room. Do you want me to play it, eject it, or what?” Obviously the CSI techie didn’t know whether to wind her watch or shit.

“Latent prints all done in here?” Bree asked in a kindly manner.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were the cabinet doors open or closed to begin with?” I asked.

“They were definitely found open, just like you see them now. You’re Dr. Cross, aren’t you?”

The young cop’s tone was a shade defensive, but Bree seemed not to notice. She flicked on the television and then the tape machine.

At first there was just static. Then came a flash of blue screen. Here we go, I thought.

Finally an image came up. Disturbing one too, right out of the box.

It was a medium shot of a dark-blue wall with a flag hanging on it. A plain wooden chair was the only other item in the picture.

“Anyone recognize that flag?” Bree asked. It had bars of red, white, and black, with three green stars across the middle.

“ Iraq,” I said.

The word dropped like a heavy weight in the room.

Bree did the smart thing, then. She paused the tape. “Everyone out,” she said. “Now.”

A handful of other cops had gathered at the door to see what was up in the den. “Detective,” one of them said, “I’m D-2 on this case.”

“That’s right, Gabe, so you know how sensitive this tape might be. I want you to talk to everyone who was just in here. Make sure this stays tight.”

She shut the door to the den without waiting for a response from the D-2.

“Do you want me to go?” I asked her.

“No. I want you to stay. John too.”

Then Bree flipped the tape back on.

A MAN WALKED OUT of the shadows and directly into the frame. The killer? Who else would it be? He’d left us this tape, hadn’t he? He wanted us to see it. He wore a plain oatmeal-colored robe and a black-and-white kaffiyeh, and appeared to be incredibly pissed off at the world. He carried an AK-47, which he draped across his lap as he sat to address the camera.

Now this was stranger than strange. It took my breath away, actually. The style of video was immediately familiar. We’d all seen tapes like this before, from Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas.

My gut tightened another notch. We were about to find out something about our killer, and I was willing to bet it wouldn’t be good news.

“It is time for the people of the United States to listen for a change,” the man said in heavily accented English. The skin on his cheeks, forehead, and prominent nose was heavily pockmarked. The skin color, mustache, and apparent height matched the eyewitness accounts from that afternoon at the Riverwalk.

This was our guy, wasn’t it? The one who’d thrown the author Tess Olsen twelve stories to her death? And before that, seen fit to humiliate her with a dog leash?

“Each one of you watching this film is guilty of murder. Each one of you is as guilty as your cowardly president. As guilty as your congress and your lying secretary of defense. Certainly as guilty as the pathetic American and British soldiers who defile my streets and kill my people, because you believe that you own the world.

“And now, you will pay with your lives. The blood of Americans will be spilled in America this time. Blood that I will spill myself. Make no mistake, there is much that one man can do. Just as none of you are innocent, now none of you are safe.”

The man got up and approached the camera, staring out at us as if he could see right into the den. Then he beamed with the most horrific smile. A second later, the screen went back to static.

“Christ,” Sampson said into the ensuing silence. “What the hell was that crazy piece of shit? Who was that maniac?”

Just as Bree was reaching for the “stop” button, another image came up on the screen.

“A double feature,” said Sampson. “Man believes in giving us our money’s worth, anyway.”