moved in that direction by virtue of the fact that the front door had
not been forced or even nominally tampered with.
The security company rep continued, “I mean we could eliminate the
possibility entirely. We have systems that refuse to react to massive
combos being forced down their throat. Computers would be jackshit
useless. Problem is those systems are so sensitive to interference they
were also routinely slamming down on owners who couldn’t seem to
remember their numbers on the first or second try. Hell, we were getting
hit with so many false alarms the police departments were starting to
fine us. Go fucking figure.”
Frank thanked him and then moved through the rest of the house. Whoever
had committed these crimes knew what they were doing. This was not going
to be a quick one. Good precrime planning usually meant equally good
post-planning.
But they probably hadn’t counted on blowing away the lady of the house.
Frank suddenly leaned against a doorway and pondered the word used by
his friend the Medical Examiner: wounds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A K was EARLY. His wATch sHowED oNE-THiRTy-FrvE. HE
t ladc aken the day off, spending much of it deciding what to wear;
something he had never concerned himself with before, but which now
seemed vitally important.
He pulled at his gray tweed jacket, fingered a button on his white
cotton shirt and adjusted the knot in his tie for the tenth time.
He walked down to the dock and watched the deck hands clean the Cherry
Blossom, a tour ship built to resemble an old Mississippi riverboat. He
and Kate had gone on it their first year in D.C. during a rare afternoon
off from work.
They had tried to hit all the touristy attractions. It had been a warm
day like today, but clearer. Gray clouds were now rolling in from the
west; afternoon thunderstorms were almost a given this time of year.
He sat on the weathered bench near the dockmaster’s small hut and
followed the lazy drift of the sea gulls across the choppy water. The
Capitol was visible from his vantage point. Lady Liberty, minus the
collective filth of over a hundred and thirty years of residing outdoors
thanks to a recent cleaning, stood imperiously on top of the famous
dome. People in this town were encased in grime over time, Jack thought
to himself, it just came with the territory.
Jack’s musings turned to Sandy Lord, the firm’s most prolific rainmaker,
and the biggest ego Patton, Shaw had ever seen. Sandy was close to being
an institution in the legal and political circles of D.C. The other
partners dropped his name as though he had just that moment stepped down
from Mount Sinai with his own version of the Ten Commandments, which
would have commenced with “Thou Shalt Make Patton, Shaw and LORD
Partners As Much Money As Possible.”
Ironically, Sandy Lord was part of the attraction when Ransomed Baldwin
had mentioned the firm. Lord was one of the best, if not the best
example of a power lawyer the city had to offer, and it had dozens in
that league. The possibilities were limitless for Jack. Whether those
possibilities included his personal happiness, he was far from certain.
He was also not certain what he expected from this lunch.
What he was sure about Was that he wanted to see Kate Whitney. He wanted
that very much. It seemed as though the closer his marriage came, the
more he was emotionally retreating. And where more likely a spot to
retreat than to the woman he had asked to marry him over four years ago?
He shuddered as that memory engulfed him. He was terrified of marrying
Jennifer Baldwin. Terrified that his life would soon become
unrecognizable to him.
Something made him turn, he wasn’t sure what exactly. But she was
standing there, at the edge of the pier, watching him.
The wind whipped her long skirt around her legs, the sun batded the
darkening clouds, but still provided enough light to sparkle across her
face as she moved the long strands of hair from her eyes. The calves and
ankles were summer brown. the loose blouse bared her shoulders, showing