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Alex’s grandmother did not like that. “Freak?”
Bree said, “Someone who defies the norms. An outlier.”
Nana Mama relaxed. “I’ll take outlier.”
“How’s the hip?”
“It’s been better. When Jannie gets up, we’re going to stretch again.”
“I’m going for a run,” Bree said. “Clear the cobwebs.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be an ancient outlier like me someday.”
Smiling, Bree went upstairs, changed into her running gear, and went out onto the front porch. It was a warm morning for late April, but she liked running in the heat.
After doing her routine series of stretches and ballistic drills, she bounced down the stairs and headed toward Capitol Hill. Most days, she wore earbuds and listened to music or a podcast. But Bree wanted to tune everything out and just run for a while. Like Jannie, she found that running set her free in a wayfew kinds of exercises did, and normally she let go of thought, absorbed in the effort.
For the first fifteen minutes or so, she ran her usual route and quickly fell into that calm state the endorphins gave her. But about thirty minutes in, as she ran on Independence Avenue along the Mall west of the hill, questions about the Duchaine investigation began to creep back in.
Could Theresa May Alcott be behind the murders at Paula Watkins’s home? Was her nephew and his company involved? And what happened to his twin brother?
The idea of having to figure all this out seemed daunting, beyond her capacity and above her pay grade.A billionaire who likes to garden and grieves for a granddaughter. A tech wizard with a company that serves federal law enforcement agencies. Could they be involved in brazen assassinations?
Bree turned and ran toward Constitution Avenue and the far side of the Mall, readying herself for the steep climb up the hill. But when she reached Constitution, she had a thought that caused her to slow and then stop and wipe her brow. She dug out her phone from the hip holster that also held her water bottles.
She thumbed through her contacts, found who she was looking for, and hit Call.
After two rings, a familiar voice answered against the din of an active office. “Chief Stone,” Detective Rosella Salazar said. “I was about to call you.”
“Lucky me. What’s up?”
“The assistant DA on the Watkins case would like you to come in and make a longer, more detailed statement.”
“When?”
“ASAP.”
“I’m not working tomorrow. I could come up on the early train.”
“I’ll tell her. She wants us both there. But you called me.”
“I did. My rich client pulled the plug on my end. But I wanted you to know a few things before I let the entire thing slide and wait for your investigation to wrap up.”
“I’m listening.”
Bree told her about going to Ohio to talk with Theresa May Alcott and then seeing the name Paladin on the billionaire’s desk phone and learning about her relationship to Ryan Malcomb, one of the company’s founders.
“Okay …” Salazar said. “So what?”
“Paladin does work for the FBI, CIA, all the big law enforcement and national security agencies as well as big corporations. They can sort through tons of raw data looking for specific kinds of information.”
“Such as?”
“Like a terrorist’s cell phone. Or the links between members of an organized crime group. Or the type of person who is likely to buy one of Frances Duchaine’s one-of-a-kind gowns.”
“I’m still not—”
“Or the people behind a sex ring. Or the potential buyers in a sex-slave auction.”
