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Gardens

      Anacostia

      Washington, D.C.

      D.C. HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Darren Fletcher was knee-deep in marsh water, standing over the body of a male Caucasian, approximately twenty to twenty-four years of age, who didn’t appear to have a mark on him. But he was dead, without a doubt, staked to a small canoe dock ten feet offshore, bobbing in the gentle tidal flow of the Anacostia River. Fletcher stared at the boy—he really was too young to be called anything else—and thought of his own son, only a few years younger, and promised to be a better father. He’d lost count of how many times he’d stood over deceased young men and made the same fervent prayer.

      He slapped at a mosquito, brought his hand away from his neck with a smear of blood on his palm.

      Murder. It came in all forms.

      But this, who would kill a man this way? Tying him to a stake in a river, leaving him to drown? Had the killer watched as the tide slowly rose, waiting to see the results of his handiwork? Watched the terror of his victim, the dawning knowledge that death was coming for him? The boy’s eyes were open, caked in mud, as if he’d looked at someone in his last moment. The water had spilled over his head, then receded, leaving its filthy, choking mark.

      Fletcher shook off a chill, glanced around for cameras and saw none.

      Lonnie Hart, his longtime partner, came down the path to the water. He gave a sharp, clear whistle.

      Fletcher’s head snapped up. “What’s the matter?”

      Lonnie waved for him to come back onto dry land. He headed off, not unhappy to have to get out of the marshy water. It smelled, fecund and ripe, and the body’s bloated rawness wasn’t helping.

      When he got closer, Hart said, “We’re in luck. Another five feet out and it would belong to us, but you’re standing on federal land. I called the Fibbies, told them to get their pretty little behinds over here. National park, it’s their jurisdiction. We’ll let them take over.”

      “Thank God for small mercies, eh, Lonnie?” And to the body: “Sorry, dude. Red ties are coming. They’ll treat you right.”

      He squished up the bank, climbed out of the muck. Hart stuck out a hand and helped tow him onto the small wooden dock. Once on dry land, he shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water on Hart, who punched him on the shoulder and nearly toppled him back into the river.

      “Ugh. Come on, man. That’s gross.”

      Fletcher grinned at him, then stripped off his socks and wadded them up, stowed them in the pocket of his gym shorts and slid his dry loafers back on his feet. It was a stroke of luck his gym bag was still in the car, sheer laziness on his part not taking it into the house after his workout last night. He hardly wanted to ruin his good pants getting into the nasty water.

      “Not sure if I’m happy about this being a Fed case. Haven’t seen one of the strange ones lately. I could have used a challenge.”

      “Fletch, you’ve seen enough weird for two lifetimes.”

      “True that.”

      He cast a last look toward the boy, shrugged and started back up the hill into the park. There were two patrol officers guarding the scene, both sweating in the steamy August heat, plus several others milling about, waiting for Fletcher and Hart to tell them what was what. It might rain this afternoon, a welcome storm to cool things off for the evening, but now the air was still, hot and sticky, and Fletch was thankful he wasn’t in uniform.

      Hart grabbed the logbook and signed out of the scene. Fletcher followed suit, then said, “Heads up, kids. The Feds will be coming. Once they’re here, you can release the scene to them.”

      The patrols nodded miserably, the lights from their patrol cars flashing red-and-blue streaks across their faces.

      He ignored the rest of the masses, went to his car and stripped off his gym shorts. Splashed some warm water from a bottle in his console across his skin and wiped his legs down with a dirty towel. Got back into his lightweight summer slacks. He debated about the shorts, just trashing them, but ended up wringing them out and stowing them with the socks in the trunk of his vehicle.

      Fletcher heard a woman calling his name, hurriedly buttoned his fly. No privacy left in the world, especially for a cop.

      He turned and saw Lisa Schumann, a crime reporter from The Washington Post who was too pretty for her own good, and not afraid to use that to her advantage, making a beeline across the gardens toward him, determined as a bull facing a red cape. He stifled a groan. Hart took one look at her and peeled off, back toward the patrols.

      “Ass,” Fletcher said after him, then squared his shoulders to meet Schumann, who looked as fresh and frisky as ever despite the heat. He didn’t know how she managed; all of his people looked like puddles.

      “Detective Fletcher, can I get a statement?”

      Fletch shook his head. “You’ll have to talk to the Feds, Schumann. This one’s not ours.”

      Her eyes were practically glowing. “Come on. Give me a little something. I won’t attribute it.”

      “Yeah. Nice try.”

      “Fletcher.” Her voice dropped an octave, and she shifted so he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra under her white button-down. She licked her lips and cocked her head to the side like a puppy. “I heard it was gruesome. If you’d just let me get a peek, I could be convinced to let you buy me dinner.”

      He resisted pulling his best Scottish accent and saying, Keep looking at my crotch like that, you man-eater, and it will gruesome more, and shrugged instead.

      “Is it true that she’s staked to the dock naked?”

      “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the victim is male, and he is not staked to the dock naked. Sorry, but I’ve got to run. You take care.”

      “Oh.” She actually sounded disappointed, and then her fervent grin returned. The audacity of youth and ambition. She flipped a page in her notebook and stared at him expectantly, her water-blue eyes locked on his. He could see the thoughts scrolling by on her face. Naughty thoughts. She was going to get herself in trouble one of these days, telegraphing like that.

      “So, see ya,” he said, and deliberately jangled his keys.

      “Oh,” she said again, this time truly surprised. She dropped the notebook to her waist. “Yeah. Call me if you hear anything, okay, Fletch? Thanks.”

      He watched her cross to the patrols, which sent Hart scurrying back to him. He didn’t like Lisa Schumann at all, not after she’d attributed a deep background quote to Hart in the paper. Not smart. Never screw your sources. Hart wouldn’t get within twenty feet of her now, and Fletch had to admit, he wasn’t keen on giving the girl any information, either. He had plenty of reporters he could trust, and an oversexed coed with a byline wasn’t one of them.

      “Did you hear what she said?” Fletch asked.

      “No, too busy humming the theme to Jaws. What’s the scoop?”

      “She flat-out propositioned me.”

      Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Well, you’re a handsome lad, and she’s pretty, if you can get past the bubble gum. Why not? A weeklong course of penicillin would clear things up quick.”

      Fletcher snorted. “Penicillin and a million dollars. I wouldn’t get near her with your—”

      “Hey, now. Overtime for everyone.”

      “Ever the optimist.”

      Fletcher’s cell phone rang. “That’s Sam. Hang on a sec.” He put the phone to his ear. “What up, buttercup?”

      She laughed, and a tiny piece of him, the piece he’d shoved away into the darkest corners of his heart, constricted. He really liked that laugh, and liked to be the one who brought it forth. She laughed more and more lately;

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