"The SAC is inside. He's expecting you, Detective Cross," the agent said in a soft Virginia accent, not unlike Kyle's.

"Casualties in there?" I asked.

The agent shook his dark crew-cut, bullet-shaped head. He was trying not to show that he was nervous, maybe afraid. "We just arrived, sir. I don't know the casualty situation inside. I was told to wait out here by Senior Agent Cavalierre. It's her case."

"Yes, I know."

I opened the glass door. I paused for a beat alongside the ATMs in the vestibule. Focused. Prepared myself a little. I saw Kyle and Betsey Cavalierre across the lobby.

They were talking to a silver-haired man who looked like he might be the bank's manager, or possibly the assistant manager. It didn't look as if anyone had been hurt. Jesus. Was that possible?

Kyle saw me and immediately walked my way. Agent Cavalierre stayed close at his side, so close she almost seemed glued to Kyle.

It’s a miracle," Kyle said. "No one's hurt here. They took the money and got away clean, though. We're going to the manager's house. His wife and daughter were held hostage, Alex. The phones at the house are dead."

"Call the Rosslyn police, Kyle. They'll have squad cars there."

"We're three minutes away. Let's go!" Kyle barked. He and Agent Cavalierre were already heading toward the door.

The message from Kyle was loud and clear: The FBI was in charge of the robbery-murders bank investigation. I was welcome to join up, or leave. For the moment, I went along. It was Cavalierre and Kyle's case and their huge headache, their time in the pressure cooker.

No one spoke as we rode through Rosslyn in one of the FBI sedans. One pattern of the robberies had been clear so far: Somebody died when a robbery took place. It almost seemed that a serial killer was robbing banks.

The bank alarm went directly to the FBI?" I finally spoke up about something that had bothered me since I got Kyle's call at St. Anthony's.

Betsey Cavalierre turned toward me from the front seat. "First Union, Chase, First Virginia, and Citibank are all connected to us for the time being. It was their decision we didn't pressure them. We moved several dozen extra agents into the DC area, so we'd be ready when and if another bank was hit. We arrived at the branch in Rosslyn in less than ten minutes. They got out anyway."

"You call the Rosslyn PD yet?" I asked.

Kyle nodded. "We called, Alex. We don't want to step on anybody's toes if we don't have to. They're on their way to the bank branch." I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "Not to the bank manager's house, though."

"We want to check the house ourselves first." Agent Cavalierre answered for Kyle. "The killers aren't making any mistakes. Neither can we." She was brusque and impatient with me. I didn't much like her tone, and she didn't seem to care what I thought.

"Rosslyn has a very good police force," I told her. "I've worked with them before. Have you?" I felt I had to defend some of the people I knew and respected.

Kyle sighed. "You know it depends on who responds first. That's the problem. Betsey's right we can't make mistakes on this one. They don't."

We turned on to High Street in Rosslyn. The neighborhood looked peaceful, serene, thriving: Nicely groomed lawns, two-car garages, large homes, both new and old.

They always kill somebody, I couldn't help thinking. They've done it to a family before.

We parked in front of a large Colonial house with a big red number 315 on a pale yellow mailbox. A second dark sedan edged into the curb behind us more agents. The more the scarier.

"The crew is probably gone." Kyle spoke into his walkie-talkie. "But remember, you never know. These guys are killers. They seem to like it too."

I never know, I thought. How true that was, and how thoroughly . frightening it could be sometimes.

Was it part of what kept me on the job? The adrenaline spike that wasn't like anything else I'd ever experienced? The uncertainty of each new case? The thrill of the hunt? A dark side of myself? What? Good occasionally triumphing over evil? Evil often triumphing over good?

As I unholstered my Clock, I tried to clear my mind of anything that would interfere with my timing or reflexes in the next few moments. Kyle, Betsey Cavalierre, and I hurried toward the front door. We had our guns drawn. Everyone looked solid, professional, appropriately nervous.

You never know.

The house was deadly quiet from the outside. Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog howled. A baby bawled. The baby's cry hadn't come from the bank manager's house.

Somebody had died at each of the first two robberies. That was the only pattern so far. The killers' ritual? The warning? The what? Could this be a pattern murderer robbing banks? What in the name of God was happening?

"I go in first," I said to Kyle. I wasn't asking his permission. "We're in Washington. We're close anyway."

Kyle chose not to argue with me. Agent Cavalierre was silent. Her dark eyes studied my face. Had she been on the front line before? I wondered. What was she feeling right now? Had she ever used her gun?

The door of the house was unlocked. They had left it open. On purpose? Or because they departed in a hurry?

I moved inside. Quickly, silently, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. The foyer, living room, and kitchen beyond were all dark. Except for the stuttering red glow of a blinking digital clock on the stove. The only sound was the refrigerator humming.

Agent Cavalierre motioned for the three of us to split off. There wasn't so much as a whisper inside the house. This wasn't good. Where was the family?

I moved in a low crouch toward the kitchen. I took a look inside. No one there.

I opened a wooden door at the rear of the kitchen: Closet. The pungent odor of spices and condiments.

I opened a second door: Back stairs leading up to the second floor.

A third door: Stairs leading down to the cellar.

The cellar had to be checked out. I flicked on the light switch. No light came on. Damn it.

"Police," I called out. No answer.

I took a deep breath. I didn't see any immediate danger to myself, but I feared what I might find down there. I hesitated a second or two, then I stepped on creaking wooden stairs. I hate cellars, always have.