60
Harold Barnes came out of recovery at Holy Cross Hospital in Silver Spring around three that Tuesday afternoon. He’d had a stent placed earlier in the day, and the nurse I’d been in touch with said he’d probably be alert enough to work with a police artist that evening.
I kept looking at the clock in our office, knowing that every second that passed gave us less of a chance of finding Cam Nguyen, Joss Branson, and Evan Lancaster alive. Part of me wanted to go straight out to Holy Cross, pour cold water on the attorney’s face, and get him to work. But the more rational side of me wanted Barnes to have the clearest possible mind when he started describing what the man in the Redskins hoodie had looked like the night of the Superior Spa slayings. If Barnes was at all foggy, a defense attorney could shred him in court.
Bree called around six and in a stressed voice said, “What do we have now? Twenty-four hours?”
“Give or take,” I said.
“The Lancasters and the Bransons keep calling. I have nothing to tell them, nothing I can tell them. That’s the worst part. Knowing what I know about the timetable and having to keep it from them.”
I felt for her, I really did. I said, “Stay positive. I’m going to head out to Silver Spring in about an hour, watch Barnes work with the artist. I’ll call you the second we have something.”
At a quarter to seven, I was gathering up my things to head home when Captain Quintus came rushing down the hall with that expression on his face.
Sampson saw it, too, waved his mitt of a hand and said, “No. No more.”
“Four known dead at a high-class brothel in Georgetown,” Quintus said. “They were all shot at close range sometime late this afternoon. This could be your guy.”
“No way,” Sampson said.
I shook my head, too. “Our guy targets sleazy massage parlors once every two years.”
“Weren’t you the one who said he could be evolving?”
Sampson drove us to Georgetown. Along the way I texted Bree to let her know about the shootings, and that it was going to be another late night.
She called as we parked south of the scene off Wisconsin near Book Hill Park. Dusk was falling. Blue lights were flashing. A perimeter had already been set up. Luckily, the word had not yet spread to the media. There were only a couple of freelance television guys. But a crowd was forming.
Sampson got out, headed toward the crime scene while I took the call.
“Is this connected?” Bree asked.
“Quintus thinks so,” I replied.
“Should I come over?”
“I’ll let you know once I’ve taken a look.”
“You sound beat.”
“You know that candle that burns at both ends? I’m feeling like they’re almost one flame right about now.”
“I know the feeling,” she said. “But I promised myself I’d take a look for Ava before heading home.”
“Maybe that girl was right and Ava’s long gone for the Left Coast.”
“Well, I’m going to give it a try, anyway.”
“Another reason I love you,” I said, and hung up.
I skirted the growing mob of looky-lous and reporters by walking up the west side of the street until I reached the tape.
Showing the patrolwoman on duty my badge, I ducked under and started toward the apartment building. As I did, I happened to look back into the crowd, catching a glimpse of a man I almost recognized in a Georgetown sweatshirt. I slowed, trying to get a better look.
“Alex?”
I shot my attention to Sampson. The big man stood in the open doorway with that grim expression he gets when something has rocked his world.