into the night.
FIRST DISTRICT STATION
M STREET SW, WASHINGTON DC
I still can’t reach him.”
Lopez put her cell phone back in her pocket and looked at Larry Pitt, who pointed at the screen of his computer terminal.
“Here you go, Casey Jeffs is listed at 1216 Juventus Place, on the corner of K Street and Potomac Avenue, near the docks.”
Lopez turned abruptly away from the terminal and walked out of the office. She was surprised to see Kaczynski hurrying toward her, his features strained.
“I just tried to call you,” she said, and then caught the look on his face. “What is it?”
“I was speaking to Emergency Services.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve been called down to K Street.”
Kaczynski looked at Lopez as though she’d grown horns. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Is Tyrell okay?”
Kaczynski snapped out of it. “I don’t know. I’m on my way down there.”
She didn’t wait for Kaczynski to offer her a ride, dashing past him toward the exit.
K Street SE, Washington DC
The sight of the squad cars amid a blaze of hazard lights beside apartment blocks on the corner of K Street and Potomac Avenue sent a shiver down Lopez’s spine. She sat in silence as Kaczynski pulled the car in alongside one of the beat cops guarding the scene. He flashed a badge through his open window at the cop.
Lopez was out of the car before it had stopped moving, hitting her stride fluidly as she crossed to where an ambulance sat idle, paramedics standing in silence around the vehicle. Jesus, no. Please, no.
“Where is he?” she asked one of the paramedics.
The man gestured to the open front door of the ground-floor apartment opposite them. Lopez felt a flush of hot tears scald her cheeks as she saw Lucas Tyrell lying slumped against a wall, his eyes staring vacantly out of the open door. One arm was pinned uselessly behind him, the other resting on the carpet as though caressing it, a pistol in his grasp. Farther down the hall Casey Jeffs lay in the corridor, his features a lifeless mask. The lights gently flickering against the Anacostia River nearby made the scene seem almost serene.
Bailey, Tyrell’s dog, must have gotten out of the car. The little dachshund lay curled up against his master’s lifeless body.
“Christ’s sake,” Lopez uttered, turning away.
Kaczynski spoke so softly that he was barely audible.
“Paramedics say he suffered a heart attack. His car’s parked around the corner. Looks like he shot Casey in self-defense but was too far gone to call for help …”
Lopez saw Kaczynski hold up a sealed plastic bag in which lay Tyrell’s cell phone, switched on but unused. She could see alerts to her missed calls on the screen. Lopez looked away, trying to blink back her tears but in the end swiping them angrily away with her sleeve.
“He was checked in to see a specialist tomorrow morning,” she said. “Took me three years to get the fat asshole to book an appointment.”
Lopez felt as though the world had weighed in upon her shoulders. Her legs quivered and she slumped down onto the dusty sidewalk.
Kaczynski squatted down beside her and placed a hand around her shoulder.
“There’s nothing more you could have done, Lopez. It was his choice not to seek medical attention. We all knew that.”
Lopez thumped her thigh with a clenched fist. “Stupid asshole.”
Kaczynski managed a feeble smile. “An epitaph he would have agreed with entirely.”
Kaczynski stood, calling out to the paramedics.
“Okay, let’s get him out of here.”
Lopez looked out at the twinkling sea of lights rippling on the surface of the Anacostia. A tiny, muted thought infiltrated the veil of her grief. She got up.
“Wait.”
“What?” Kaczynski asked.
Lopez turned to the medics as they approached with the gurney.
“Any of you guys touched him?”
The senior medic shook his head. “He’s been gone for a while, ma’am,” he said respectfully. “CPR or defib wouldn’t have saved him.”
“I want him checked over,” Lopez said to Kaczynski.
“His number was up, Lopez. There isn’t anything to find here.”
“Then there’s no harm in having him checked out,” she pointed out. “I want ballistics out here too. How soon can we get a forensic team?”
“Right away”—Kaczynski shrugged—“but why would you think he’d need that?”
“Lucas just wasn’t the type to shoot,” she said softly. “I don’t think he drew his weapon in thirty years of service. He was proud of that.”
“You don’t think he got whacked?”
“I’d put my salary on it,” Lopez said. “Only other witness that we had committed suicide five hours ago in a secure and