“Ugh.”

“Quite.”

“What’s on it?” he wondered aloud for the twentieth time.

Amado had called a tech to close the incisions, and joined them, staring at the innocuous bit of fiber. “When I was younger, I once knew a man in Naples who was a smuggler. Diamonds, mostly, and other jewels. His partner took them from the hotel rooms of the rich who stayed in the city. He always struck rooms that faced the Bay of Naples. He would place the jewelry in trash bags, and throw them off the balconies toward the cliffs. Then his people would walk the cliffs, ostensibly cleaning up the trash, and take the jewels at their leisure.”

Sam was amused by the story. “I can’t imagine you being friends with a lawbreaker, Amado.”

“Not friends, Samantha. Never that.”

“So how did they smuggle out the jewels? I assume they needed to get them out of the country? If they had them in hand, couldn’t they just cash them in?”

“Your assumption is correct. They wished to move the jewels out of the country, exchange them for money. At the time, there was an alert at the borders for this man. If he tried to fly, or to drive across the border, he would be caught. So he used a woman in a similar way. A bag of jewels, liberated from their settings, followed by a tampon. The border patrols were thorough searchers, but when they spied the string, they backed away.”

He grinned once, haughtily, and not necessarily amused. “Old mythologies die hard, do they not? And so the jewels were taken across the border, sold for exorbitant prices and the man was not caught for many years. They called him l’Ombre—the Shadow. He was one of the most successful cat burglars in history. He died recently, a very rich old man. I believe someone was writing a book about his escapades.”

Sam was charmed. “He sounds like an absolute scoundrel, Amado. How in the world did you know him?”

His face was eloquently blank. “The woman who crossed the borders for him was my mother.”

Chapter 25

NOCEK’S SOBERING REVELATION ended the afternoon’s exercise. They cleaned up and, casting a last glance at Souleyret’s now-stitched and empty body, Sam said a quick prayer for the woman’s soul, and they left the autopsy suite.

Amado escorted them to the lobby. “I will send an official report to your email address this evening, Lieutenant Fletcher. It was pleasant seeing you once again. Samantha, we are still engaged for the symphony next week? I look forward to our evening with Rachmaninoff.”

“As do I, Amado. I’ll see you next Friday. Thank you for your help today.”

At that moment, Fletcher’s tech hurried through the doors, bringing the secure laptop, and was closely followed by the courier from Quantico sent by Charlaine Shultz. Fletcher went to deal with his guy, and Sam greeted the courier. He was a kid, a newly minted agent who’d probably just graduated. He had a fresh haircut, a red tie and was out of breath, like he’d run from Quantico.

“Dr. Owens? I’m Agent Marcos Daniels. I have the package Dr. Shultz prepared for you.”

Sam held out a hand. “Thanks for bringing it. Glad you didn’t get a ticket on the way. You must have just broken the land speed record from Quantico.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to bring it back when you’re done reading. I’m your shadow until you do.”

“All right,” Sam said. “Once Lieutenant Fletcher is finished, I believe we’re heading to the homicide offices. I’ll ride with you and start looking over the file. We might be a minute, though. Catch your breath.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded sharply, subsided into a chair and took three deep breaths. Sam loved the literal ones.

Fletcher, meanwhile, had taken the laptop from the officer and shooed him away. He joined them, speaking quietly.

“We need to move quickly. Word’s out we have something, and Armstrong wants to know what it is.”

“I thought he was on board with the subterfuge.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Not yet,” he said grimly.

“Oh, Fletcher. You are playing with fire.”

“I know. Isn’t it fun?”

“No, it’s not. I want to see what’s on the SD card. If you’re avoiding your boss, where shall we go to look at it?”

“The only place in this town where there’s any privacy, of course. Mine.”

* * *

It was only a few minutes’ drive to Fletcher’s town house on Capitol Hill. Sam rode with Agent Daniels, who proved to be a pleasant companion for the short trip—he said not a word, leaving her to her thoughts. She couldn’t get Amanda Souleyret out of her mind. The helpless body, attacked from behind, the bloody spray on the ceiling and walls. The knife wound in the neck...

Now Sam had it, what had been bothering her all morning. Amanda hadn’t fought back. When she was attacked, she’d run.

Running was counterintuitive. Souleyret was a trained professional. She would know how to defend herself, and how to defend Cattafi. Yet, when faced with an attack, she’d tried to get away instead of fighting her way out.

What in the world had spooked the girl so badly she’d turned tail instead of trying to fight?

The killer had gotten close to her, very close. There was no forced entry. Cattafi, or Souleyret, had let the killer in. Or the killer had a key and surprised them.

No, that long hallway from the door to the kitchen wouldn’t dampen sound. They’d have heard him coming. So they must have let him in.

Was she trying to reason with him? Talk him down? Was she trying to surrender?

Worse, was she dealing with someone she knew? Someone trusted enough to get face-to-face?

That must be it, Sam decided. Whoever killed Amanda Souleyret was a known entity.

Which made this even harder. Betrayal resonated more deeply than any other motive, made it an ever deeper tragedy.

One last turn, and they were on Fletcher’s street. His row house was charming white brick, situated on a street catty-corner to the Longworth Office Building on Capitol Hill, just down from the Capitol Hill Club and the RNC.

Sam had been to Fletcher’s place before, and always wondered what the stone angel in his front yard symbolized to him. Darren Fletcher was as far from a religious man as she’d known, though he wasn’t an atheist, not that she knew of. For a Catholic like herself, nominal as she may be, the idea of not having that mysterious support was anathema. She’d have to ask him about it sometime, like he had with her desire to be a medical examiner.

They parked on the street and followed Fletch up the stairs to the front door.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t sorry for it at all. He was a man, a cop, and rarely if ever spent more than a few hours a day in his own home.

The house was surprisingly straight, though, and Sam detected a few homey touches she hadn’t seen the last time—a potted plant in the corner, candleholders on the dining room table, black leather placemats. Surely that was Agent Jordan Blake’s doing. The two were well-matched, Sam thought. She liked Jordan, respected her as a cop and thought, given a few drinks on consecutive relaxed Saturday afternoons, the two might even become friends. She was also wildly protective of Fletcher, another attribute. Fletch needed someone to care for him. He withered without a woman’s touch.

“Does she have a drawer yet?” she asked him.

He looked at her sideways. “No. There’s no point. Neither of us have time to settle in, you know? But I did buy her a toothbrush.”

“Oh, Fletcher. The lengths you go to are mind-boggling. Even I’m overwhelmed.”

“Hush, Owens.” But he wasn’t annoyed. He had the sort of suffused glow a man in the early throes of a love affair should have when imagining his woman spending the night.

Daniels was clearly unnerved by their banter. “Sir? Can I help with anything?”

“Can you cook?”

The kid shrugged. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”