It was heartbreaking. Nobody had ever shown Ava what it meant to really be there for her. She’d had a nonexistent father, and a mother whose drug addiction was stronger than their own relationship had been. But she was also the only mother Ava had ever known. I would have been more concerned if she didn’t miss her.

We still had a lot of talking to do, and a lot of issues to address together—eventually. For the moment, though, it seemed like what Ava needed more than anything was to cry.

Maybe it was even a step in the right direction.

CHAPTER

34

OUR PRESS CONFERENCE WAS SCHEDULED TO START AT TEN THAT MORNING. For something as big as this, we use the largest all-purpose space at headquarters, which also happens to be the lineup room. The only difference was that we were the ones lining up this time.

Everything was hopping when I got there. We had at least eighty reporters in chairs, and maybe twenty news cameras across the back wall. Channels Four, Five, Seven, and Nine were all going live, I was pretty sure. The nationals were probably here to test the waters, and see what might be worth putting on the teleprompter for Diane Sawyer or Brian Williams that night.

At the front, on a small, low stage, the podium was already covered with a sloppy bouquet of microphones. A heavy blue curtain had been drawn across the one-way glass.

It looked like D’Auria was getting ready to start, so I went and took my place behind him with the other primaries—Huizenga, Jacobs, Valente, and Chief Perkins. It was a deliberate image for the cameras, to be sure. Washington was going to need to know—and see—that MPD was on top of these murders.

At ten o’clock exactly, our public information officer, Joyce Catalone, closed the secure door to the hall and nodded at D’Auria to go ahead. He stepped up to the mikes and started right in.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Commander Tom D’Auria with the Metropolitan Police Department. I’ve got a prepared statement regarding the events of the last twelve hours, and then we’ll have some time for questions.”

D’Auria quickly covered the basics, without getting too specific about methods, weapons, or the exact location where the bodies had been found. It was too early to make any of that publicly available. He did indicate both victims by name, though—Larissa Swenson and Ricky Samuels. That part was news to me. They’d been Jane and John Doe, the last I’d heard.

D’Auria also indicated that Mr. Samuels was a known sex worker, like Cory Smithe before him; but he didn’t make any mention of the physical similarity between Ms. Swenson and her equivalent “partner victim,” Darcy Vickers.

I would have made the same call. Gay hustlers are a specific group of people who might be able to use information like this to protect themselves. By the same token, there’s no effective way to warn and protect a city’s worth of attractive blond women. Protect them against doing what, exactly? It’s a fine line between what’s useful at this point, and what just stirs up panic. Sometimes you have to make your best guess and roll the dice.

As soon as D’Auria reached the end of his statement, the questions started flying. At first they were the usual logistical kind of inquiries. Were the bodies found near each other? Yes. How near? No comment. Did we have any evidence of a connection between the two victims? No comment. Would MPD be updating the press that afternoon? Yes, if there was anything to tell.

But then, after about five minutes, D’Auria called on Bev Sherman from the Post, and things took a turn.

“Commander, you mention two possible serial cases associated with these murders—”

“I didn’t say serial,” D’Auria cut in. “Let me be clear. We have what appear to be second homicides by the same perpetrators, in two previously unrelated cases.”

“Fair enough,” Bev went on. “My question is about a third incident. The Elizabeth Reilly murder?”

My ears pricked up at that one. Technically, all these cases were on my plate, but I’d just been down to Shellman Bluff. I’d met the Reillys. I’d held that baby girl.

“What about it?” D’Auria asked.

“A new blog by the name of The Real Deal has been quite critical of MPD lately, and the Elizabeth Reilly investigation in particular. Most specifically, The Real Deal has been focusing on Detective Cross, who I know is coordinating on all three of these cases. I was wondering if the detective himself would care to comment?”

All around the room, people started tapping away on phones and iPads, presumably looking up The Real Deal. I also felt a good number of eyes turning my way.

D’Auria held the floor, though. “Bev, I’m not going to respond to rumors on a blog I’ve never heard of,” he answered. “That’s something we’ll have to look into.”

“Let me be more specific,” Bev jumped in before he could move on. “Detective Cross, would you be willing to comment on some of the allegations—for instance, that you violated department policy by moving Ms. Reilly’s body before a proper examination? Or that you were out socializing on Saturday night while the investigation, arguably, should have been gearing up?”

I was stunned, and thrown off guard, and most of all, steaming goddamn mad. Where was this coming from? What was this blog I’d never heard about before? And who the hell had been watching me and my family go out to dinner?

I had about eighteen responses for Bev, none of them fit to print in her paper. Chief Perkins didn’t look too pleased, either. He was giving Joyce Catalone a signal to wrap this thing up.

“I can only repeat what Commander D’Auria already said,” I finally answered. “Until we get a look at the material in question—”

“So, you’re not familiar with The Real Deal?” someone else asked.

“Believe me, I will be in about ten minutes,” I said. It got a few chuckles around the room, and then Joyce was there at the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all we have time for this morning. The investigative team has other business to attend to, but we will be updating you throughout the day, if there’s anything to tell.”

It’s a thin charade, but absolutely preferable to letting the press conference spiral out of control. We’d come in trying to play offense, and already we were back on our heels.

Things weren’t looking so good for the department right now. And maybe even worse for me.

CHAPTER

35

FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE PRESS CONFERENCE LET OUT, OUR CORE TEAM WAS up in Chief Perkins’s office on the fifth floor.

“What the hell just happened down there?” Perkins wanted to know.

“We got coldcocked by some random blogger,” D’Auria said. “A million nobodies tapping away out there, and you never know which one’s going to blow up until you’re picking shrapnel out of your ass.”

Perkins didn’t keep a computer in his office, so Huizenga opened her laptop on the big round conference table. After a quick Google, she had The Real Deal up in front of her, and we all gathered around.

“Oh God,” she said. “One of these.”

The blog had a simple masthead—THE REAL DEAL, in a plain black font. Beneath that was a subheading, “Who’s Policing the Police?”

In the margin, there was a numbered list of twenty-three MPD officers, each one clickable to some other page. I recognized several names right away. They were all cops who had been arrested in the last year, for anything from petty theft to domestic abuse, and even one murder. There was also a small map of the city’s police districts, with different colored dots, presumably corresponding to various types of crimes.

The most recent blog entry was dated that morning. Its title was “America’s Most Dangerous City?” Beneath that, “Murder Season in DC.” And then, “Detective Cross: Asleep at the Wheel?”