Thank you to Dr. Edward Uthman for sharing his expertise on autopsy procedures. Thanks to Long Nguyen for his talented eye and remarkable generosity. Thanks to Julie Buxbaum, author of The Opposite of Love, for her inspiring writing and kindness to strangers—I will pay it forward.
The men and women who work at the D.C. U.S. Attorney’s office and the Metropolitan Police Department are real-life heroes. I’m proud and honored to be part of that team. Thank you to Kelly Higashi, chief of the USAO Sex Offense and Domestic Violence Section. Crime victims couldn’t ask for a more devoted advocate, and I couldn’t ask for a more generous boss. I’m also grateful to Channing Phillips for his equanimity and patience.
My story involves a fictional defense attorney, but D.C. is blessed to have two excellent public defenders’ offices. Some of the best trial lawyers in America forgo lucrative law-firm salaries to work there representing indigent clients. Their work is true public service.
Thank you to my fabulous agent, Elaine Koster, and her indefatigable colleague, Stephanie Lehmann. Your tireless devotion made this a better novel and me a better writer. Thanks also for putting me in the gifted editorial hands of Touchstone Fireside’s Lauren Spiegel, who combines sharp literary insight with bubbly and genuine warmth. Lauren, you polished up this book while making me smile, and I’ve loved every minute of working with you. And I’m thrilled to be working with Stacy Creamer, the woman who makes it all happen.
This novel wouldn’t exist without the participation of the smartest, most honorable man I know, my husband, Michael Leotta. His unflagging support, insistence on excellence, and wise editing transformed my idle daydream into this book. Mike, you did so much, in so many ways, to bring this to life. There aren’t words enough to thank you, so I’ll just say: You’ve made every one of my dreams come true. I couldn’t have done this without you. I love you.
A woman’s scream pierced the stillness of the Capitol grounds.
Officer Jeff Cook was on patrol on the Capitol steps. He’d been a Capitol Police officer for twelve years, but he’d never heard a scream like that around here. He put a hand on his holster and turned toward the sound. His eyes flicked over the scenery until they identified the source of the scream. There—up the hill—the third-floor balcony of the Capitol’s south wing. A man and woman, locked in a jerky dance. Cook couldn’t make out the people, but he knew the geography: that was Congressman Lionel’s hideaway.
The couple lurched left, then right. The woman shrieked again.
Then the man shoved her over the edge.
The woman seemed to fall in slow motion, emitting a feminine, operatic wail the whole way down. Arms flailed in graceful circles, legs kicked in lazy swings, as she dropped past marble flourishes and arched doorways.
A thud. And silence.
She’d landed on the marble terrace in front of the Capitol. Elegant for walking on, it was a disastrous place to fall. What would that slab of rock do to flesh and bones traveling at the speed of gravity?
Cook squinted back up at the balcony. The man was still up there. He peered over the balcony, then turned and disappeared inside.
Cook ran toward the Capitol steps.
• • •
Anna Curtis and twenty other women stood in rows on the wooden floor, looking at their feet, at one another, anywhere but at the woman standing in front of them. The instructor stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, waiting with a fading smile. The gym was on the eleventh floor of the prosecutors’ office, overlooking the rooftops of Judiciary Square. In the distance, the Capitol towered with smug superiority behind the brutalist concrete slabs of local government buildings. Behind the women, lawyers on stationary bikes and deputy U.S. Marshals on weight machines watched to see what the class would do. Anna felt a growing sympathy for the instructor.
Two weeks ago, an email entitled “Women’s Self-Defense” went to everyone in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Tonight was the first class. Many students, like Anna, were prosecutors in the Sex Crimes and Domestic Violence section. Others were paralegals, victim advocates, secretaries, and prosecutors from other sections. Anna figured some were there because they really wanted to learn self-defense, but others just wanted to meet Eva Youngblood in person.
Eva was the wife of City Councilman Dylan Young-blood. The couple appeared regularly in the Post’s Reliable Source column and the Washingtonian’s society pages. They achieved even more celebrity a few months ago, when Dylan announced he was challenging Congressman Emmett Lionel for D.C.’s lone congressional seat.
Anna both wanted to learn self-defense and to meet Eva. She had admired the fierce feminist advocate for a long time, and was excited to take a class with her.
Anna looked around at the class, hoping someone would volunteer. Her fellow prosecutors were some of the toughest women she’d ever met. Yet despite their enthusiasm for the class and willingness to sign a packet of waivers and consent forms, no one would step up. The instructor’s smile faded.
Anna’s sympathy kicked into high gear. “I’ll be the guinea pig.”
“What’s your name?” Eva asked.
“Anna Curtis.”
“Thanks for helping with our first lesson in self-defense,” Eva said.
The instructor smiled and held out her hand. When Anna took it, Eva’s fingers closed tightly around Anna’s palm. The instructor yanked Anna toward her, pivoted, and flipped Anna onto the ground. Anna’s back hit the mat with a thwack.
The class buzzed with exclamations and laughter.
“Wow!”
“How’d she do that? Anna’s like six inches taller!”
“Anna, are you okay?” That was her best friend, Grace.
Anna blinked up at the fluorescent panels. A flash of anger was eclipsed by a desire to learn that move.
Eva’s voice cut through the racket, loud enough to reach the Nautilus machines at the back of the gym. “That’s your first and most important lesson, ladies.” She strode in front of Anna on the mat. “Never let your guard down!”
Anna didn’t mind being the butt of a joke, but she could give as good as she got. And the opening was too perfect. She swept her foot out at Eva’s ankle, knocking the instructor’s feet out from under her. Eva tumbled to the mat with a surprised yelp.
The other students gasped collectively. Throughout the gym, weights froze mid-lift; elliptical machines halted mid-stride.
The two women’s heads were level now, a few inches above the floor. Anna grinned at the instructor. “Nice to meet you.”
Eva seemed to consider her options, then returned the smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
They got to their feet, and Eva stuck out her hand again. Anna made a show of exaggerated suspicion, then braced herself and took Eva’s hand. It was just a handshake this time.
“So there you go!” Eva said, turning back to the class. “Another demonstration of why you should never let your guard down!”
The crowd applauded. Stairmasters whirred again; weights continued their up-and-down trajectories. Anna trotted back to her place with the other women in the class. Her friend Grace, an elegant black woman in pink capris, said, “You’re a natural on your back, kiddo.” Anna smiled and rolled her neck in an attempt to get the kinks out.
“Okay, ladies!” Eva called. “I’m going to teach you one series of moves tonight. You know the most common injury from a bar fight? Broken fingers, from punching with a closed fist. Hit with the heel of your palm, and you won’t hurt yourself—and you won’t hold back because you’re scared of hurting yourself.”
She showed them how to strike an attacker’s nose with the heel of their hand. The key was twisting from the torso, creating torque power from the core. Then she showed them how to grab an attacker by his shoulder, pull him very close, and deliver a debilitating groin kick.
“It seems counterintuitive,” Eva said. “But you have to go through your attacker. Don’t run away until he’s disabled. Pull him tight to your chest, so he can’t get a
way when you kick his groin. He’ll bend over in pain, and you follow up with a knee to his head.”
Eva had them practice on one another. Anna buddied up with Grace. To practice the groin kick, Grace pulled Anna close to her, so they were chest-to-chest and hipto-hip.
“You should’ve at least bought me a drink first,” Anna whispered.
They cracked up.
“What are you waiting for?” Eva asked Grace. “If this were an attack, your assailant would’ve dragged you to an alley by now.”
“Right.” Grace pulled Anna against her again and performed a mock groin kick.
Anna bent over in pretend agony, just as a musical ringtone went off. The theme song from Cops: Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? The entire class looked to the wall, where a dozen identical BlackBerries were lined up.
“It’s mine,” Anna said, slipping out of Grace’s grasp and trotting over.
“Coward!” Grace called.
Anna picked up her phone. She only used that ring-tone for calls from her boss, the chief of the Sex Crimes and Domestic Violence unit. But Carla Martinez was in South Carolina, teaching a course at the National Advocacy Center. Why would she be calling at almost nine o’clock at night?
“Hi, Carla?”
“How quickly can you get to the Capitol building?” Carla asked.
Anna walked over to the tall window. She could see the top of the Capitol dome eight blocks away.
“I can be there in ten minutes.” So much for dinner plans.
“Great. I’ll explain while you’re on your way. Get there as quickly as possible.” Carla cleared her throat. “Preferably, before Jack Bailey shows up.”
• • •
Anna thought the Capitol illuminated at night was the single most impressive sight in a city full of impressive sights. Tonight, however, the landmark was trussed up like any other crime scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the white marble steps, and a haphazard layer of TV vans and police cruisers jammed the street.
Anna held up her U.S. Attorney’s Office credentials, and an officer lifted the yellow tape. As she ducked under, a few reporters shouted questions at her back. She was not at liberty to answer them—even if she had the answers. She kept walking.
The Capitol sat atop one of the biggest hills in the city, and the landscaping around it was like a wedding cake, all white, scalloped and multitiered. A fountain separated two sets of marble steps. She jogged up the closest one.
She reached the top just in time to see Jack Bailey crest the other set of stairs. Jack was a tall African-American man with a clean-shaven head and light green eyes. His work ethic and courtroom skills had propelled him up the ranks in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Now, at only thirty-seven, he was the chief of the homicide section, one of the most coveted positions in the largest U.S. Attorney’s Office in the country. He usually favored dark suits, but tonight he wore jeans and a navy T-shirt with the Department of Justice seal on the pocket. He’d been called here from home.
So much for Carla’s hope that Anna get here first. Anna felt a rush of happiness to see Jack, but she was careful to project only the polite smile of a colleague. She greeted him in her most formal voice.
“Hello, Jack.”
Jack laughed and shook his head when he saw her. “Hello, Anna. Did Carla send you to stake a claim to this case?”
“I was supposed to get here before you.”
An MPD officer passed them and chuckled. “No fighting, you two. Flip a coin or something.” The ongoing turf war between the Homicide and Sex Crimes units of the U.S. Attorney’s Office was a joke to everyone outside the two sections.
Anna and Jack walked to the Capitol’s long, rectangular south wing, where dozens of officers clustered on the brightly lit marble terrace. She saw uniforms from the Metropolitan Police Department, Capitol Police, Park Police, Secret Service, and a few agencies she didn’t recognize. D.C. had more separate police forces than any other American city.
She and Jack navigated through the outer layer of police personnel. The closer they got to the center, the quieter the people were. There was an open space in the middle of the crowd, like the eye of a hurricane. Anna wended her way into it.
A woman lay on the white marble terrace, on her side, arms splayed one way, legs bent the other. A pool of dark blood spread under her blond hair. Her ivory skirt was hiked above her waist, revealing ivory garters. Ivory lace panties were bunched around her right knee. The panties had been ripped off her left leg and hung in tatters. The way her knees were angled, her bottom was bared to the onlookers. Anna wished she could cover the woman with a blanket.
“They have to wait for the medicolegal investigator,” Jack said quietly. “They can’t move the body until she’s been pronounced dead.”
Anna nodded. On the woman’s neck hung a delicate white-gold necklace with the word “Sasha” scrolled in cursive. Odd, Anna thought. One of the few facts Carla had been able to tell her was that the victim checked into the Capitol with a Georgetown student ID under the name of Caroline McBride.
The young woman’s face was turned to the side. She had alabaster skin and the finely carved profile of a Greek statue. She was about the same age, hair color, and build as Anna’s little sister, Jody. Or even Anna herself.
Anna looked up at the balcony from which the woman had fallen. A Metropolitan Police Department officer was standing on it, looking down at the woman’s body. A few feet from Anna, an MPD crime-scene technician was taking photos of something glimmering near the woman’s head. A greyish-red dollop. Anna gagged and turned away, realizing it was a piece of the woman’s brain.
She’d handled some gruesome cases: injuries inflicted with razor blades, bullets, boiling oil. Sex offenses committed on the most vulnerable victims. But this was the first time she’d seen a murder victim at the scene. The muggy night seemed to press down on her; she felt unbearably hot and claustrophobic.
Anna pushed her way back through the crowd. She made it to the railing at the edge of the terrace in time to retch over the side. She prayed she wasn’t contaminating the crime scene—and that no one was watching her. When her convulsions stopped, she kept gripping the rail. Her legs were rubbery and her throat was raw, but mostly, she was mortified.
Anna dug into her purse for one of the tissues she always carried; they were essential in a job where witnesses routinely broke into tears. Now that she needed one herself, she was out. She searched for a crumpled Starbucks napkin, a CVS receipt, anything. Her hands shook.
“Anna.” Jack stood beside her, offering a folded handkerchief.
“Thank you.”
As Jack placed the handkerchief in her palm, he gently squeezed her hand. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his cool grip. It steadied her. She took a deep breath and reluctantly pulled her hand away. She blotted her cheeks and wiped her mouth with his handkerchief. The cloth smelled of fresh peppermint.
“God, I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered. “Is anyone laughing at me?”
“No.” His deep voice brooked no argument. “Everyone does that at their first homicide scene.”
She doubted that was true, but at least it was comforting. Her hands stopped shaking enough for her to find a LifeSaver in her purse. She sucked on the candy and willed her stomach to settle down. She checked her lapels to make sure she hadn’t spattered herself. She seemed clean.
“Okay, let’s do this.” She turned back to the terrace and stuffed Jack’s handkerchief into her purse so she could wash it before returning it. Jack nodded, and they walked to an MPD officer standing at an arched marble entranceway.
“Hi, Frank,” Jack said. “Can you show us where our victim fell from?”
The officer pointed up a curving staircase. “Two flights up to the third floor. Turn left, door’s on your right.”
Jack thanked him, and the officer went back the way he’d come. Anna followed Jack up the empty stairwell. When they got to the second-fl
oor landing, Jack stopped and turned to her. He lay a hand on her cheek.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he whispered.
For a moment, she leaned into his touch. She still felt queasy from the sight of the young woman on the terrace. Part of her just wanted to rest her head on his chest and let his solid form blot out what she’d seen. But anyone might see them. She pulled his hand away from her cheek.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re pale.” His eyes were concerned as he reached for her.
She stepped back quickly and raised a hand. “Not here,” she whispered fiercely. No one besides Grace knew they were dating, and Anna intended to keep it that way.
Jack sighed as he turned back to the stairs. “At least that put some color back into your cheeks.”
They walked up the final flight of steps in silence. At the top, she pointed to a dark globe implanted in the ceiling.
“Pull the video?” she said.
Jack nodded. “McGee’s on it. He’s waiting for us.”
They rounded a corner and walked down the hallway until they came to a crowded vestibule in front of a single door. Anna could see even more activity inside the sumptuous office beyond the door—Capitol Police officers securing it as a crime scene.
In the vestibule was Tavon McGee, a huge, dark-skinned homicide detective from the Metropolitan Police Department. Anna had worked with him on her biggest case, a domestic-violence prosecution that led to a homicide. McGee loved flashy suits, chili cheese fries, and a good joke. He was also very good at his job.
The detective stood next to a beautiful dark-haired woman in a pantsuit. Anna saw the silver badge clipped to the front of her belt, and the slight bulge of her suit jacket over a firearm at her side. Some kind of federal agent.
McGee and the female agent were interviewing an older African-American man who sported a mane of salt-and-pepper hair, an impeccable dark suit, and a gold lapel pin with the House of Representatives crest. Anna instantly recognized him: Emmett Lionel, the district’s delegate to Congress for the last thirty-one years. Because D.C. wasn’t a state, Lionel didn’t have a vote in national matters. Technically, he was a “delegate” rather than a full-blown “congressman,” but everyone used the honorific. He was the city’s most powerful local politician.
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