and the dog both looked up. One of them had been crying. He wanted to fall on his knees and wrap his arms around her so she’d never stare straight into the eyes of death again, but they were in the middle of a crime scene and half of D.C.’s forensic experts were stepping over Caroline and Tom was not the sort of man to wear his heart on his sleeve. He hunkered down beside her and kept his hands to himself.
There was blood all over Caroline’s white blouse. The dog’s? Or Dare Atwood’s?
“Allie needs a vet, Tom,” she said. “His paws are bleeding. He tried to charge through the French doors when the gun went off.”
“Can it wait?”
She shook her head. “Dare would want us to . . . to take care of him. Alistair was her baby.” Her eyes filled again and she looked quickly down at the long snout resting in her lap. The Airedale gave a whiffling sigh.
Tom rose, then glanced at the French doors. One of the panes was shattered—from the bullet, he supposed—and the dog had done its best to claw his way through the rest. Beyond, in the small walled garden, a team of forensic people was combing the damp ground. Searching for anything—footprints, the impression of an elbow, a broken twig, a clutch of fibers snared on some bark—that might lead to the killer.
He turned back to the DCI’s body. A middle-aged man was closing her eyes; he’d already sponged the blood from her shattered forehead. The medical examiner, Shephard guessed. He introduced himself.
“It’s pretty straightforward.” The doctor was already packing up his instruments. “She was assassinated in her own living room in front of witnesses. I’ll have the bullet for you by morning. But I’m thinking it came from a high-powered automatic rifle. The skull cracked like an eggshell.”
“Military issue?”
“Could be.”
“Doc—would you have a minute to look at the dog? It’s nothing major—some cuts and glass—but he’s bleeding . . .”
“I’m not a vet,” the man said curtly, “but under the circumstances—”
“Thanks.”
Avoiding the sight of the black plastic bag being zipped over Dare Atwood’s iron gray hair, Shephard focused on Cuddy. “So what happened?”
“Caroline and I were sitting on the sofa—”
“—with your backs to these windows?”
Cuddy nodded. “Dare was standing in front of the fire. All of a sudden the glass shattered and she fell over. Dead. Half her forehead shot away. I don’t think she knew what hit her.”
“And?”
“Caroline dropped immediately beside Dare. Screaming her name. The dog went nuts. I took cover behind the sofa.”
“Brave of you to admit.”
“I thought it made sense,” Cuddy rejoined wryly. “I grabbed Carrie by the ankle and hauled her over to me. There was nothing she could do for Dare.”
“No,” Shephard agreed. “And then?”
“I heard the guy pounding past the side of the house. Toward the street. I ran to the front door and tried to catch some glimpse of him—”
“Also brave.”
Cuddy shrugged impatiently. “It was a calculated hit. He only fired once. I figured he was more interested in getting away than getting me.”
“See anything?”
“Just the guy’s back. He was running toward Wisconsin. Dodged right into Thirty-fourth Street as I opened the door.”
“Did he still have the gun?”
“He had a duffel slung over his shoulder. The gun may have been in there.”
“I saw a guy with a duffel,” Caroline said abruptly. “When we arrived tonight. He was walking toward us down O Street. Slouching along. I thought he was homeless. Caucasian. Clean-shaven. Under six feet—about Cuddy’s height—with a wool cap fitting close to his skull. Harsh features.”
“You saw all that in the dark?” Tom glanced at his wristwatch. One-thirty in the morning. “What time was this?”
“After midnight,” she said defensively. “That’s partly why I noticed him. He was the only other person on the sidewalk. And he passed under a
There was blood all over Caroline’s white blouse. The dog’s? Or Dare Atwood’s?
“Allie needs a vet, Tom,” she said. “His paws are bleeding. He tried to charge through the French doors when the gun went off.”
“Can it wait?”
She shook her head. “Dare would want us to . . . to take care of him. Alistair was her baby.” Her eyes filled again and she looked quickly down at the long snout resting in her lap. The Airedale gave a whiffling sigh.
Tom rose, then glanced at the French doors. One of the panes was shattered—from the bullet, he supposed—and the dog had done its best to claw his way through the rest. Beyond, in the small walled garden, a team of forensic people was combing the damp ground. Searching for anything—footprints, the impression of an elbow, a broken twig, a clutch of fibers snared on some bark—that might lead to the killer.
He turned back to the DCI’s body. A middle-aged man was closing her eyes; he’d already sponged the blood from her shattered forehead. The medical examiner, Shephard guessed. He introduced himself.
“It’s pretty straightforward.” The doctor was already packing up his instruments. “She was assassinated in her own living room in front of witnesses. I’ll have the bullet for you by morning. But I’m thinking it came from a high-powered automatic rifle. The skull cracked like an eggshell.”
“Military issue?”
“Could be.”
“Doc—would you have a minute to look at the dog? It’s nothing major—some cuts and glass—but he’s bleeding . . .”
“I’m not a vet,” the man said curtly, “but under the circumstances—”
“Thanks.”
Avoiding the sight of the black plastic bag being zipped over Dare Atwood’s iron gray hair, Shephard focused on Cuddy. “So what happened?”
“Caroline and I were sitting on the sofa—”
“—with your backs to these windows?”
Cuddy nodded. “Dare was standing in front of the fire. All of a sudden the glass shattered and she fell over. Dead. Half her forehead shot away. I don’t think she knew what hit her.”
“And?”
“Caroline dropped immediately beside Dare. Screaming her name. The dog went nuts. I took cover behind the sofa.”
“Brave of you to admit.”
“I thought it made sense,” Cuddy rejoined wryly. “I grabbed Carrie by the ankle and hauled her over to me. There was nothing she could do for Dare.”
“No,” Shephard agreed. “And then?”
“I heard the guy pounding past the side of the house. Toward the street. I ran to the front door and tried to catch some glimpse of him—”
“Also brave.”
Cuddy shrugged impatiently. “It was a calculated hit. He only fired once. I figured he was more interested in getting away than getting me.”
“See anything?”
“Just the guy’s back. He was running toward Wisconsin. Dodged right into Thirty-fourth Street as I opened the door.”
“Did he still have the gun?”
“He had a duffel slung over his shoulder. The gun may have been in there.”
“I saw a guy with a duffel,” Caroline said abruptly. “When we arrived tonight. He was walking toward us down O Street. Slouching along. I thought he was homeless. Caucasian. Clean-shaven. Under six feet—about Cuddy’s height—with a wool cap fitting close to his skull. Harsh features.”
“You saw all that in the dark?” Tom glanced at his wristwatch. One-thirty in the morning. “What time was this?”
“After midnight,” she said defensively. “That’s partly why I noticed him. He was the only other person on the sidewalk. And he passed under a
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