Shelby’s lips parted and her eyes grew wide, but she didn’t say anything other than, “I have at least ten of them at home. I’ll put a couple in the cabinet under your bathroom sink today. Would that work?”
Sam nodded. “Thank you.”
“Sam—”
“Please, Shelby. I can’t.”
Shelby nodded as she blinked rapidly, probably trying not to cry. Ever since she’d gotten pregnant, she cried over everything, even dog food commercials, according to her fiancé, FBI Special Agent in Charge Avery Hill. “I understand.”
Sam knew she did and appreciated it. “I gotta go.” She kissed baby Noah’s cheek and squeezed Shelby’s arm. “You guys have a good day.”
“You too. Good luck with the case.”
“Thanks. We’re going to need it.”
On her way out, Sam nodded to Melinda, the agent she called Secret Service Barbie.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cappuano.”
“Good morning.” Sam brushed by her and down the ramp, eager to get to the scene and help Freddie. She felt a tiny bit guilty for being less than friendly to the agent who was only doing her job. Something about her bugged Sam. Probably the fact that such a stunningly gorgeous woman was paid to watch her smoking hot husband. “You’re an idiot,” she muttered to herself as she got in the car and headed for the checkpoint.
The agents waved her through, and she directed the car toward Woodley Park, giving thanks to whoever invented Labor Day and gave the federal workforce the day off. Traffic was all but nonexistent as she drove and brooded over why she couldn’t stand Melinda. That was better than brooding over the remote possibility that she could be pregnant. Again.
If it were true, this would be the sixth time. Five miscarriages later, she’d learned to manage her expectations. The last one, which had been Nick’s baby, had been the worst of all. She wanted nothing more than to give him the family he’d never had. He said that she and Scotty were all the family he needed, but she still held out hope that maybe, just maybe, they might get lucky one more time.
She breathed her way through the emotions this topic always roused in her—sadness, disappointment, despair and inadequacy. That last one particularly rankled, as she was known for being more than adequate at her job yet was unable to carry a baby to term. The thing that came so naturally to women all over the world was seemingly impossible for her.
“You can’t spend the whole day obsessing about this.” Sometimes saying it out loud made it easier to take her own advice. “You’ve got too much to do and a city on edge with someone shooting at innocent people. If you spend all day obsessing about this, you won’t get anything done. That’s not an option today.”
By the time she arrived on Woodley Road Northwest, she had her emotions more or less under control and her focus on the task at hand. There’d be time later to fall apart over the other thing, which probably wasn’t even a thing anyway.
She parked on the pretty, leafy street lined with restaurants and walked the short distance to where Freddie and Gonzo were conferring on the sidewalk next to a bloodstain that had been taped off. Lindsey’s team had already removed the body.
Outside the tapeline, the large group of curious bystanders watching the proceedings began to buzz when they saw Sam approach. People were always so curious about other people’s misfortune. It made her sick.
She ducked under the tapeline. “Morning,” she said to Freddie and Gonzo.
“Morning, LT,” Gonzo said. He looked tired and stressed.
“Did you guys get any sleep?”
“Couple hours,” Freddie said. “They called me on this because I was closest.”
“What do we know about the vic?” Sam asked, her gaze shifting to the bloodstain that told part of the story.
Freddie consulted his notes. “Caroline Brinkley, age twenty-six, a waitress at a K Street lounge, was on her way home from work when she was shot in the back.”
“Where’s home?” Sam asked.
Freddie pointed to a four-story building on the corner. “She lives on the second floor with a roommate named Delilah. We’ve notified her, and she gave us the contact information for Caroline’s family in Minnesota. We asked her to let us make the call. We were waiting for you to see how you wanted us to proceed.”
“Ugh.” Sam realized she’d probably have to handle the call that no cop ever wanted to make. And they said rank had its privileges. Whatever. She took the piece of paper with the parents’ names and phone number written on it from Freddie and stuffed it in her pocket. “Canvass?”
“We’ve been up and down the entire block,” Gonzo said. “No witnesses. Archie is pulling the footage from our cameras in the area.”
“Anything else?”
“Lindsey thinks she didn’t die immediately.”
“Goddamn it,” Sam whispered. “How long was she out here before someone called us?”
“Thirty minutes or more. She was dead by the time the first Patrol officer arrived on the scene.”
Sam blew out a deep breath full of frustration. “I want these guys. I want them bad.”
“Patrol is stopping every black sedan they encounter,” Gonzo said. “So far, they’ve pulled over nine different cars, but no sign of a nine millimeter or any other weapons.”
“Let’s head back to the house and regroup,” Sam said. “I’ll make the call to her parents on the way.”
“You want me to do it?” Freddie asked.
She gave him a wan smile, appreciating that he’d offer to do something no one wanted to do. In fact, she ought to let him do it because he was way better at those sorts of things than she’d ever be. But she couldn’t ask him to do something just because she didn’t want to. Not something like this anyway. “Thanks, but I’ve got it. Finish up here, and meet me at HQ.”
“Right behind you, LT,” Gonzo said.
Biting back the feeling of dread over the call she needed to make to parents who had no idea their world was about to implode, Sam got in the car, dialed the number and pressed Send before she could lose her nerve. As the call connected, she shifted the car into Park and drove to the intersection.
“Hello?” a friendly sounding woman said.
“Mrs. Brinkley?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Lieutenant Sam Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C.”
Mrs. Brinkley inhaled sharply. “Caroline?”
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to tell you—”
The woman’s piercing screams brought tears to Sam’s eyes. God, she hated this.
A man came on the line. “Who is this?” he asked sharply.
Once again, Sam said, “Lieutenant Sam Holland, Metro PD in Washington, D.C.”
“Oh God, no. Not Caroline.”
In the background, Sam could hear the mother’s heartbroken sobs.
“I’m so sorry to have to tell you she was shot and killed early this morning.”
The man’s guttural moan had Sam brushing at tears while trying to stay focused on the road. This sucked so bad, worse than any other part of her awful job. She had no idea how people survived receiving this kind of news.
“Did you... Do you know who did it?”
“We