Page 52

“Bag appears to belong to Drake Conway,” I said. “Sixty. ID says faculty at Georgetown University.”

Sampson gestured over his shoulder and up the hill. “I bet it’s our vic.”

“My bet too,” I said. Definitely didn’t fit the homeless profile, however. “Come closer and lift this up out of here before I go back for my shoes.”

“You’re in your socks now?” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Trials and tribulations,” I said.

Sampson pulled the pack up on the trail, and I went back and dug in the muck until I found my shoes. I threw them onto the trail, then crawled up the steep bank.

When I reached the top, I lay panting on the path a moment. “Now I get why rock climbers are so fit.”

“You used to rock climb.”

“Well, I used to be fitter too,” I said, sitting up with a groan. I wiped the mud off my shoes onto the grass.

We opened the backpack. It was full of bulging manila files and several books about religion in Europe during the Reformation. Apparently, Conway was a professor of theology.

“I see a tablet,” Sampson said. “But no phone.”

“I see something else here,” I said. “Something I don’t like.”

“What’s that?”

“A connection. Boog said that the dead guy in the Audi was wearing a clerical collar. Choir Boy was apparently booted from a seminary. And Conway here, presumably the latest vic, teaches theology.”

“Great,” Sampson moaned. “I hate when religion’s involved. Media goes nuts. And they’re going to go nuts over this, Alex. They might be able to ignore an underage homeless runaway getting killed, but not someone like Conway.”

“Agreed,” I said. “Hurricane dead ahead.”

48

BREE STONE ADJUSTED THE collar of her blouse before picking up her briefcase and entering a glass-faced office building in downtown Bethesda.

Alex had called her from the scene to tell her about the newest victim and to check on Nana Mama.

During the night, Nana had had two more minor heart “episodes,” as the nurses called them. But she had rallied both times. When Bree left, Nana was sitting up in bed eating eggs and porridge. The day nurses had arrived, as had Aunt Connie and Aunt Hattie.

Damon was dropping Ali off at school, so Bree had been able to drive straight here. She took an elevator to the sixth floor just before nine a.m.

Frost and Lear Development occupied a suite at the far end of the hall. She knocked and got no answer.

She tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. She was on thin ice as far as cause, but she nevertheless pushed on. She opened the door and peered into a small, well-appointed reception area with three chairs.

“Hello?” Bree called. “Anyone here?”

She heard a chair being pushed back on a wood floor followed by footsteps, and a fit, tanned, and well-coiffed man in his thirties appeared. He was holding a coffee mug and wearing pressed jeans, thousand-dollar loafers, and a crisp white dress shirt, no tie.

“Can I help you?” the man said, looking her up and down. “We’re not interested in buying anything at the moment.”

Bree beamed at him, crossed the reception area, and stuck out her hand. “I’m not selling anything. Bree Stone. I’m with Bluestone Group in Alexandria. We do security work.”

“Okay?” he said, taking her hand and shaking it perfunctorily.

“You’re David Lear?”

“Jeffrey Frost. David retired.”