GENOCIDE: A Darcy McClain and Bullet Thriller

Hlebo

1

Darcy rose at dawn, descended the stairs two at a time, and yanked open the front door, eager to read the headlines of her morning Chronicle. She scooped the newspaper off the walk and chuckled as she saw the faces of her two friends plastered across the front page. Never had she been so absorbed in a presidential election.

Before she headed back indoors, she paused to survey the quiet cul-de-sac with its houses stacked close together, their gray outlines awash in the jaundiced glow of the streetlights. No one stirred in the neighborhood. Too early. Even the local cat who loved to sleep on the front porch was nowhere in sight.

A light breeze kicked up. Dead leaves cartwheeled over mowed lawns, and the cold spray from the neighbor’s automatic sprinklers misted her from head to toe. She dodged a second dousing and ducked into the house, collecting Charlene’s skateboard as she entered the foyer.

Freshly brewed coffee drew her to the kitchen. She poured a cup and slid onto the window seat in the breakfast nook to devour every word of the three-page article. Most of the content she already knew, but she never tired of reading about Governor Sean Ireland and Senator Magdalena Mags Cortés. Even though Darcy thought she knew her friends, the past few months had brought one shocking piece of information after another. In all the years Darcy had known Sean—dating back to their college days at Stanford Law School—not once had he ever alluded to running for the presidency. When he became governor of California, he claimed he was more than satisfied with his current role and had no intention of running for any other office. Yet a year ago, he declared his candidacy, and in a bold (and some said premature) move, announced his vice presidential candidate, Senator Mags Cortés. Mags and the Latino community had a long-standing love affair, and pundits predicted she would sweep 70 percent of their vote.

While it came as a surprise Sean aspired to be president, it was no revelation Mags was his vice presidential pick. Separately, the two possessed the talent and power to accomplish anything they set their minds to. Together, The Formidable Two, as they had been dubbed by the press, packed an unbeatable punch. Before the election campaign had even started, their opponents admitted their own victory would not come easily, if at all.

Only one factor bothered the American public: the personal relationship between Sean and Mags. Not everyone was keen on the idea of a presidential candidate and his VP running mate potentially marrying. Conflict of interest, the opposition protested publicly and frequently, for most assumed the lifelong friends and reported sweethearts would marry one day. Neither refuted the rumors, so they persisted for years—until last month’s press conference, when both had dropped mind-blowing bombshells.

In a secret ceremony, Mags had married billionaire Gaspar Cruz. At the time of her bolt from the blue, as the press called it, she and hubby had been married more than six months. But Mags’s revelation paled in comparison with Sean’s shocker: a public proclamation of his sexuality. The majority of his constituents thought the decision to come out was political suicide, but they were wrong. Instead, he clinched the majority of the gay and lesbian vote and won over those who trended liberal, and because of his exemplary track record as senator and then governor, most conservatives chose to overlook his orientation in favor of his ability to bring about real change in government—a talent already proven at the state level.

The mudroom door opened and shut, cutting into Darcy’s thoughts. Charlene strolled into the kitchen with Bullet. The giant schnauzer frogged out on the tiled floor while her sister washed a handful of herbs picked fresh from their garden. Charlene looked relaxed in floral yoga pants, a pink sweatshirt, and pink flip-flops. She wore her long brown hair swept into a ponytail, and a pink headband kept the loose strands away from her oval face. Today her fingernails and toenails sparkled with pink polish.

Darcy inspected her own fingernails, next her toes. Maybe she should take a cue from Charlene and invest in a manicure and pedicure. Or a trip to the salon for highlights. She glanced at her sister. No, one high-maintenance person in the family was enough.

Charlene lowered her sunglasses and leveled her hazel eyes at Darcy. You aren’t reading about that campaign again, are you?

Darcy folded the newspaper. I am.

Charlene opened the refrigerator door and began setting items on the countertop in preparation for the brunch she promised to fix while on spring break from Stanford. "I’ve never seen you so absorbed in an election. Sean should hire you as his campaign manager. Do you think he stands a chance? Being gay, that is."

Often her sister took the opposing view simply to create conflict or to get a rise out of Darcy, but today she refused to bite. Why not? We’ve had a black president and a Catholic president, so why not a gay president with a Hispanic VP? What I care about is his ability and whether he has the intestinal fortitude and bipartisan support to do the job he pledged to do.

He’s certainly made a great governor.

Yes, he has. By the way, thanks for fixing brunch ... on your first day of vacation.

Better to do it today or I’ll be off doing a gazillion other things and will forget completely. She placed her hands on her hips. Tell me, when do you plan to move into the digital age? As in ditch the newspaper and read it online?

Never. I love the smell of newsprint in the morning.

Metal clanged.

Bullet cocked his head.

Charlene frowned. Mail? At this hour?

Light spilled across the entry. An envelope sailed through the mail slot and landed on the tile. In a barking frenzy, Bullet scooted off the floor and limped into the foyer.

Darcy sprang out of her seat and snatched up the letter before Bullet could pounce on it. Baffled by the early delivery, she flung open the front door. Stay. Bullet sat. Darcy jogged to the curb and glanced down Mandalay Lane, expecting to see a courier or a departing vehicle of some kind, but the neighborhood of mostly elderly people still slept.

She examined the envelope. Plain white and nothing written on the outside. No courier service had delivered it. She ripped the seal with her fingernail and removed a card along with a check. The note read, Meet me. 9:00 a.m. Palace of Fine Arts. No date?

She flipped the check over and whistled low and long. Why would Sean write her a check for 250 grand? A retainer, no less—for the word was scrawled in the memo section. And why hadn’t he rung the bell and stopped in for coffee, or at least for an explanation?

On her way back into the house, she petted Bullet on the head and said, Good boy, releasing him from his stay.

The hall clock chimed as she locked the front door. She had better get moving if she planned to be home in time for brunch. And, she was dying to hear why Sean had written her a retainer for a quarter of a million dollars.

Time to go. Darcy placed the check and note in the writing desk in the kitchen.

You haven’t been for your run?

Too busy reading the paper. Need anything from the store? Nothing big, of course.

Nope, said Charlene. I have everything planned, including dessert. Oh, and I gave Bullet his meds for his cut paw.

Thanks. Darcy wiggled into a nylon Windbreaker, grabbed her water bottle off the butcher block, and kissed Bullet between the eyes. He followed her into the mudroom and waited expectantly at the side door that opened onto the driveway. She hated leaving him behind, but the vet had said no running until the cut on his pad healed. She latched the screen door and tested the handle. Lately, Bullet had gotten into the habit of letting himself out of the house. As she walked down the drive, his whines tugged at her heart.

Darcy warmed up with a slow jog as she left Mandalay for Lombard—the most crooked street in the city—and raced up the steep stairs, her knees pumping high, clearing each step with ease.

Leaving Lombard, she sprinted onto Hyde and ran at a lung-bursting speed toward the fog-shrouded streets of Fisherman’s Wharf. On the harbor, she shot down the waterfront and quickly approached the docks, the slips veiled in white. Although she couldn’t see many of the yachts or sailboats that bobbed in the water, she heard the lap of the surf against their sides and the rasp of metal against wood as they tugged at their moorings.

She peeled away from one pier after another, until the Ferry Building came into view. She reached it and slowed a bit, mindful of the crowds of city workers pouring from the boat terminal, everyone in a hurry to reach their jobs in the downtown districts. She conducted a U-turn, and flew back up the Embarcadero, cutting her normal route short so she wouldn’t miss Sean.

At Pier 23 Charlene crept into Darcy’s mind. Her sister’s friendship with Vicky Lord, a young woman Darcy distrusted, continued to worry her. She had hoped that once Vicky and Charlene no longer roomed together at Stanford, the two would go their separate ways. But no. Vicky had rented a house near campus and had asked Charlene to move in rent-free. In every aspect, Vicky spelled trouble. Dan Gruet, Darcy’s former partner at the FBI, called the tattooed and pierced kid Wild Child.

Darcy’s thoughts skipped from Charlene to Sean’s double shocker. What had prompted him to come out now? Honesty, he had said. And what had triggered this sudden decision to run for the highest office in the land? Even more of a mystery, why did he want to hire her and for what, especially at a quarter of a million dollars? She couldn’t think of what service she could be to him.

Her favorite pier came into view. She sidestepped a man power washing the sidewalks and maneuvered around a refrigerator truck parked at the rear of a chowder house. From Pier 39 rose the sharp barks of sea lions. She circled the jetty, sucking in the salty air and pausing briefly to bid a silent good morning to the noisy mammals she had grown so fond of. Life was good. The tension in her neck eased as she again bore down on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Easy, methodical strides propelled her past the shops and restaurants waking to another day. She steered clear of milling tourists, navigated around a group of cyclists, and avoided a collision with a rollerblader preoccupied with texting. Two hours earlier, her normal run time, she would have owned the wharf. Few people appeared before dawn.

Maintaining a steady pace, she sailed along Jefferson until the pavement gave way to the Bay Trail. Flying by the shoreline at a pulse-pounding speed, she navigated around a pedestrian and gained momentum as she set her sights on Fort Mason, gearing up for the trail detour she had been taking ever since the city started their repairs on the retaining wall. She would be glad when they finished. The bypass route led her up a narrow, steep concrete staircase and then connected to an equally narrow walkway before disgorging its occupants onto Upper Fort Mason. Darcy managed the detour without crashing headlong into anyone, or vice versa, and breathed a sigh of relief as she left the park for Marina Boulevard.

Rejuvenated, Darcy increased her tempo as she neared the intersection of Scott and Marina, her feet striking the pavement in a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, the sound suddenly overridden by the louder, heavier slaps of sneakers on pavement. Another runner. She glanced over her shoulder.

Someone barreled into her. She hit the sidewalk. Pain shot through her lower back as her butt landed on concrete. Dazed, she stared at the black man towering over her. Without a word of apology or any attempt to help her, he dashed into the busy boulevard. Horns honked and someone cursed the man.

Jackass, Darcy muttered. She scrambled to her feet, retrieved her water bottle, and brushed dirt from her shorts, eager to be on her way. She didn’t want to miss Sean, assuming the note meant today. This was her normal running route, and he knew it since they often ran together, so on any given day she was likely to bump into him anyway.

As Darcy stood across from Lyon Street, waiting for the signal light to change, an orange sun cut through the lifting fog. Ahead loomed the Palace of Fine Arts, its ornate dome glowing copper red under the morning rays. She dropped to a walk, surprised to see the entire area cordoned off with barricades and a phalanx of San Francisco’s finest blocking all avenues into the monument.

Two officers broke from the crowd and said in unison, Presidio is closed, ma’am.

What happened? she asked, not expecting an answer.

Come back another time, the traffic cop said, his hand resting possessively on his holster.

Darcy turned to retrace her steps, hoping to approach the rotunda from a different route. In the distance, sirens shattered the peace. Their shrill whines grew louder as wave after wave of emergency vehicles and squad cars flooded the Presidio, choking off every artery. The invasion continued until the peaceful community swarmed with law enforcement. Front doors opened, and residents gathered on their porches or the sidewalks to gawk at the commotion.

She zipped her Windbreaker to conceal her shoulder rig and snuck between the vehicle-flanked streets to where a crowd had assembled at a police barrier. What happened?

Cops won’t say, said one of the cyclists milling around the barricade. All I know is, the streets are crawling with cops.

We should’ve stayed at the Golden Gate, complained another cyclist, her head bent as she examined the toe clips attached to her bicycle pedals.

A jogger stopped in front of the growing crowd of onlookers. Hey, what’s going on?

Not sure, Darcy answered.

Must be serious, he said, panting. Police are going door-to-door asking if anyone saw anything, and I heard they’ve sealed off all roads within a one-mile radius. Whatever happened must be big.

An ambulance nosed past them, tailed by a white SUV with San Francisco Medical Examiner on the side. The vehicles parked at the curb just as two vans careened onto the grounds. The letters stenciled on the compartment doors read KXTV.

A young policeman posted at the barricade shouted, Tell them to get lost!

A fellow officer who looked like he’d been on the force since the Kennedy administration gave the younger policeman a tired look. At least keep them at bay.

Someone called out a hello to Tony Barazza, the chief medical examiner and a friend of Darcy’s. Not wanting to be seen by Barazza at this particular moment, she blended into the crowd and watched him elbow his way through the throng along with Martinez, an investigator from the coroner’s office.

Geary ordered the area sealed off, an officer passed the word. The entire palace area. Understood?

Got it, another officer answered.

Darcy moved to the sidelines, searching for a weak point in the stronghold of blue, but all she saw were reinforcements and medics arriving by the minute. The chaos escalated. She slunk to the rear of the crowd, and crossed the pavement to Palace Drive. The street wrapped the back side of the palace grounds. No one confronted her, so she walked on and had almost reached the other side of the monument when she spotted two uniformed officers patrolling Lyon and Bay and another two loitering on the last stretch of lawn between her and the palace. To avoid suspicion, she met them midway.

Officers, hi. Maybe you can help me.

The grounds are closed, said the taller of the two. You have to leave. Now.

Sorry, I didn’t know. She headed back up Palace Drive, mind busy working out her next move. She glanced behind her. The officers were gone, so she walked briskly toward Bay, not at all surprised to see the policeman chatting with fellow officers at a police barricade on Lyon. She slipped among the parked cars and spied on them.

A man wearing a khaki jacket and pants appeared on the sidewalk. He took keys from his pocket and crossed the street to a row of cars. One of the officers at the Lyon roadblock homed in on him.

Hey, you. Yes, you! the policeman hollered. Who gave you permission to enter the area?

I didn’t realize I needed permission, Officer ...?

Osborn. Let’s see some identification.

Sure. The man handed over his driver’s license.

Osborn studied the stranger’s face against the photograph on the license. Jesús Santiago?

Yes, sir. Can I go now?

Are you in a hurry? Osborn handed back the license.

Frankly, yes sir, I am. My client needs ten blowups—enlargements—and they’re due tomorrow. Santiago unlocked a dilapidated Volkswagen van and leaned into the driver’s side.

When did you arrive at the palace?

Dawn. And I’m not here to tour the palace, but the Presidio. Santiago sneezed twice. Allergies.

What have you been doing all this time?

Shooting birds. With a camera, of course. I’m a professional photographer. My client owns Tweety Bird Feeds, a seed company outside Oakland.

Osborn grunted. Open your backpack.

Stiff from crouching, Darcy shifted her weight from one leg to the other, giving her a better vantage point.

Santiago released the nylon buckle, shrugged off the rucksack, and rested it gently on the ground.

Unpack it.

Santiago complied. Cameras. Lenses. Water.

The palace grounds are closed to all traffic, including pedestrians. The officers posted at the Marina barricade will point you to the detour route.

Santiago shook his head. Great. Another delay.

Good day, sir, and thank you for your cooperation. Osborn radioed a fellow officer. Kenton, Osborn. A white Volkswagen van is headed your way. Direct him to the detour. After he leaves, radio me.

Seconds after Santiago’s van dipped from view, Osborn’s two-way radio squawked. He’s gone? Good. Thanks, Kenton. Osborn walked across the lawn and disappeared from view.

Rocking forward, Darcy prepared to stand, but she felt a slight tug followed by a tearing sound. Something had snagged her jacket. She bent down to free her Windbreaker and noticed the license plates on the sports car parked beside her: EQL RYTS. Sean’s car. He must be somewhere in the Presidio. She placed a hand on the hood to raise herself. The metal was cool to the touch. The car had been here a while.

She swept the area and immediately spotted Detective Walter Ortiz, a cop she knew well from a previous case. He and several other officers lingered at the fringe of the parking lot. The party broke up, and Officer Fillmore, a rookie from the Central Station, began his patrol of the area. She had an idea. Not original, but few were. She pulled out her PI license and advanced on Fillmore, calling out as she approached, Have you seen Detective Ortiz?

As she hoped, her assertiveness threw Fillmore, who had been on the force for a month. Oh, hi, Detective McClain. He’s in the rotunda. Why?

He’s expecting me.

Really? Fillmore hesitated. I’ll show—

Thanks, I know the way.

Wait.

Darcy pretended not to hear. She crossed the greenbelt at a fast walk. Out of sight of Fillmore, she veered onto a walkway, dived into the shrubs bordering the lagoon, and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, one end of which was anchored to a tree trunk, the other tied around a colonnade.

She stole to the nearest wall and kept low for cover. A team of three stationed at the archway milled about. One carried a logbook, his job to sign in and out anyone who entered or exited the monument.

A gentle breeze stirred the scent of freshly mown grass, and muffled voices filtered from the rotunda, the words inaudible. She leaned sideways for a better view, her shoulder against the pillar for leverage. Detective Geary, a bald man pushing fifty, threw out his chest and sucked in his gut as he joined five of his officers and two plainclothes cops huddled at the palace entrance. Barazza and Martinez lingered nearby, talking in low voices. Barazza noticed Geary and headed toward the officer. A short conversation ensued. Geary spewed expletives, slapped Barazza on the back, and rejoined his men for another gab session.

Suddenly, the group exploded in loud argument, and two uniformed officers broke from the tight-knit assembly. The men seemed agitated, pacing and puffing nervously on cigarettes, apparently contemplating something important. Then the loop tightened and the heated debate continued. Curiosity ate at Darcy.

As time passed, gathering clouds blocked the sun, and shadows dulled the silhouettes inside the monument, making it difficult to discern one figure from another, especially from her angle and when most wore blue.

Hey, get those lights in here. Geary bellowed his directive.

Officers scurried into the theater. They unpacked tripods equipped with high-wattage spotlights and arranged them in a semicircle. Bright floodlights doused the honey-colored walls in blinding white.

Okay, everyone out. Geary’s gruff voice resonated through the dome.

People scattered. Darcy’s pulse quickened. On the ground sprawled a man, his back to her, one arm tucked under his body and his head partially hidden. He wore brown Dockers, loafers, and a white shirt. She craned her neck to catch a closer look, but the angle wouldn’t allow for a clear view. A policewoman stepped forward and covered the body with a blanket. Darcy eased off the concrete ledge to the ground and paused, thinking through the best approach to access the rotunda.

A hand closed on her shoulder. Seen enough?

She spun. Osborn. Hi.

Osborn leaned sideways, his gaze toward the rotunda. Hey, Hilton. Come here.

A short, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties strutted in their direction. Hilton, too, was new to the force, not a rookie but a transfer from LA. He saw Darcy and shook his head. McClain, how in the hell did you get past the command post? Shit, Geary’s going to blow his top. Sir! Hilton shouted to his boss. I need you for a minute.

I’m coming, said Geary. Darcy had tangled with him on many investigations, the outcome never good. He put an unlit cigar between his lips and scratched his silver-and-brown mustache with his thumb. The minute he laid eyes on her, his slow gait increased to a fast shuffle. You working this job, McClain? No, so scat. To Hilton, Geary shouted, Goddamn it. Who’s sleeping on the job? I want names. Do you hear me, Hilton? Names.

Yes, sir.

Geary turned back to Darcy. Well, what are you doing here, McClain?

Out for a jog.

Geary snickered. Right.

Detective. Sir, an officer called to Geary.

Yeah, Beckwith? What is it?

Press wants to interview you. They want to know if you can ID the guy.

Tell the assholes I’m trying to conduct a murder investigation plus deal with other crap. He cocked his thumb at Darcy. Now back to work and find the damn murder weapon.

Yes, sir. Sir, what is the murder weapon? asked Beckwith.

The hell if I know. Just keep searching.

A tall, distinguished-looking black man in a tan suit sauntered over to Geary. Darcy liked Detective Ortiz, a man with a conscience, for God knows Geary had none.

Darcy, hi. A smile brightened Ortiz’s stern face, and his hand shot out.

She shook it. Good to see you again.

Geary muttered something, followed by, Okay, you two, cut the sweet stuff. We’re here on business.

Ortiz glanced at his cell phone. MacDonald says he found something interesting.

Oh? Geary’s dour expression brightened. Let’s talk over there. Where it’s private.

After a few moments, Ortiz motioned to Darcy to come over.

Geary cursed. No reason to involve her whatsoever. None. Darcy didn’t hear Ortiz’s reply, only Geary’s loud bark. Okay, okay. So let her identify the victim. Then she leaves.

Ortiz made eye contact. His sad expression carried a warning: This won’t be easy. And his demeanor said she knew the victim. He walked her to where the body lay. A cool breeze rustled the bushes, tousling Darcy’s damp hair. A shiver skidded along her spine, and sweat beaded on her upper lip. It seemed like an eternity until he pulled back the blanket.

I’m so sorry. Ortiz touched her shoulder.

Numb, Darcy knelt, one hand on the ground to steady herself, her knees weak and her brain denying what her eyes clearly saw. How did he die?

Don’t answer. Geary stepped in front of Darcy. Now stand, McClain.

It does no harm to give her a minute. Ortiz grabbed Geary’s arm and led him away from the body. Begrudgingly, Geary went along.

Darcy stared at her friend, lying lifeless on the cold ground. Disbelief and sadness tore at her heart, and tears stung her eyes. Through blurred vision, she whispered her goodbye. I’ll miss you, Sean.

2

In this moment of abject grief, it took all the strength and wits Darcy possessed to snap several shots of Sean’s body with her iPhone, zeroing in on the odd lavender bows strewn across his chest. Instinctively, the detective in her surfaced, and she began to count.

Well? said Geary.

Well what? Darcy stalled, her estimate interrupted. She started again but stopped, drawn to a dull blue-black mark under Sean’s jawbone. She had never seen anything like it and wanted desperately to examine the body, but Geary hovered over her like a drill sergeant waiting for his charge to complete her push-ups.

Something white protruding from Sean’s shirt pocket caught her eye. She leaned forward, her left hand on her forehead, pretending she was about to faint, as she reached for the note with her right hand. No one intervened, so she assumed she hadn’t been seen. She stood. Has anyone counted the bows?

One hundred, said Ortiz.

Geary swore but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

What do you make of them?

Ortiz paused, as though pondering her question. Several theories, but nothing more. For one, a gay hate crime.

She understood the association between the color lavender and gay people, but when it came to labeling it a gay hate crime, she’d keep an open mind until she had more evidence.

Or they’re nothing but the killer’s calling card, his signature, and he wants us to believe it’s a hate crime.

There she agreed. How long has he been ... dead?

An hour at the most, said Ortiz after Geary was called away. Need a ride home?

No thanks. Think I’ll run back. Emotionally numb, she wanted to leave—and fast. I don’t understand why he came here without his bodyguards.

You mean the Secret Service? he asked.

No. It’s too early in the process for them to protect him. I mean his personal bodyguards. Something doesn’t add up.

I agree, Ortiz said as he walked her out of the rotunda. You sure you’re okay? I know you two were good friends.

She forced a smile. Since college days. I’m all right. Really. Just find his killer.

I promise. Ortiz squeezed her shoulder and returned to the palace.

Darcy marched down the street with a determined stride, angry, sick at heart, and with justice on her mind. Ortiz might deliver on his promise to find the killer, but Geary? She couldn’t rely on him to crack the case—or any case, for that matter. The man had a track record for bungling things.

She remembered the sheet of paper she had taken from Sean’s pocket and pulled the note out. The message read, Urgent. 9:00 a.m. Palace of Fine Arts. Alone. And someone with the initials MP had signed the note. Odd. Her own message hadn’t included the words urgent or alone, and it bore no signature.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of Charlene’s brunch plans. She checked her cell. Darn, she should have accepted Ortiz’s offer of a ride. She’d never arrive home in time. And forget about a shower and a few minutes to decompress before diving into a big meal. Food? The thought made her ill.

She turned onto Richardson and speed-dialed the house line. Charlene didn’t answer. Probably blasting her eardrums with loud music. She dialed Dan’s cell. No answer there either, so she left a message for him to call her. She didn’t particularly like being the bearer of bad news, but she didn’t want him to hear about Sean from the media. She called his office number. The voicemail recording said Dan had given everyone at his detective agency the day off. Strange for a weekday.

Darcy jogged on. She debated detouring to Lombard where she could catch a trolley home, but the detour would cost her time, so she pressed on, hoping to flag a cab instead. Suddenly weary, she pushed herself to break into a sprint. The same questions floated in and out of her thoughts. Who killed him and why? And why no bodyguards? As she ran, her tears flowed freely and her feet pummeled the pavement, rage spurring her forward.

At Chestnut she crossed over Franklin and forced herself to go even faster, knowing she would need the emotional energy to mount her first set of steep stairs. A tad winded, she cleared the flight of steps and ran up the street.

As senator, then governor, Sean had sponsored mostly popular bills but also a few unpopular ones. The latter now made perfect sense as someone’s motive for wanting him dead. Every minority in the country, especially gays and lesbians, had every reason to love him, and in a broad sense, so did most citizens. But there remained a few who hated him for giving homosexuals the store, as one congressman had stated. How many felt this way was arguable.

However, Darcy leaned more toward another possibility. Years ago Sean had been instrumental in adding the rogue CIA agent John Solis to the bureau’s Most Wanted list. Ever since, Solis had been gunning for the three of them: Sean, Dan, and Darcy.

Thoughts skipped through her mind, each linked in a way to the morning’s tragedy. Whenever death touched Darcy, she relived her parents’ deaths. Today those memories made the trip home seem twice as long, every step an effort.

Now really late, but relieved to be almost home, she mounted the stairs to Mandalay and walked the short distance to her driveway. The sound level in the isolated cul-de-sac lane dropped several decibels. Hard to believe this lazy community sat smack in the heart of San Francisco. She charged up the driveway, in no mood for eating or cheerful chatter. She wanted peace, time to sift through the morning’s events, and a chance to talk with Dan.

As she neared the side door, music blared through the screen. Sure, Charlene loved her tunes loud, but not this obnoxious. Darcy could only imagine how many of her elderly neighbors had left irate messages on her voicemail.

She reached for the screen handle, surprised to find the side door unlocked. Again, not at all like Charlene. She barged through the mudroom and into the kitchen, ready to admonish her sister for the unlocked door. But the room was empty. She snatched the remote control off the counter and put an abrupt end to Miley Cyrus’s wailing.

A burnt smell filled the air. Darcy whirled around. Smoke spiraled from a frying pan sitting on the stovetop. She removed the pan and switched the burner off. That’s when she saw Sean’s note and check sitting on the island, the envelope nearby. Her sister had her faults, but prying wasn’t one of them.

Charlene? Darcy poked her head into the walk-in pantry, puzzled by her sister’s absence. As she turned back toward the kitchen, she kicked something metal and sent the object flying. A ladle slammed into the baseboard and clattered over the floor. She walked around the island to retrieve it, astonished to see an array of pots, pans, and utensils littering the tiled floor.

Charlene! she shouted. Charlene! And where in the heck was Bullet? Maybe Charlene had to let him out into the yard to do his business. Darcy started for the sunroom at the back of the house.

A low groan. It sounded human, not canine.

Darcy crouched and looked around. Bare feet protruded from beneath the table in the breakfast nook. Her heart skipped. She crawled in beside Charlene and grabbed her wrist. A strong pulse. Darcy blew out a lungful of air, but it didn’t settle her rapid heartbeat. Charlene lay facedown, her cheek pressed against the floor. Blood streamed from a gash in her forehead and colored the white grout a bright red. She rolled over.

What happened? Darcy brushed strands of hair from her sister’s tear-stained face.

Her eyes fluttered. He ... he tried to kill me.

He—who? Darcy asked in a soft voice as she examined the red welts swelling to life on her sister’s neck. Worry dissolved to rage.

Charlene blinked. Tears trickled from her eyes. Tried to strangle me.

Lie still. I’ll call an ambulance. She wrenched her cell phone free, dialed nine-one-one and gave the operator a quick rundown of Charlene’s condition.

Darcy rubbed her sister’s arm. You’re going to be fine. Medics will arrive soon.

Neck hurts.

I bet.

Came from behind. Charlene coughed. Hands around my neck. She swallowed hard. Kicked him. Hit him with the frying pan. Shoved me ... fell ... crawled under here to hide.

Can you describe him?

Bullet. Charlene raised herself on her elbows. Fear shone in her eyes. Where’s Bullet? Go find him.

The same concern that gripped her sister settled over Darcy. Bullet! she called out as she ran from the kitchen into the sunroom. She slid aside the screen door, surprised to see a large section of mesh flapping in the breeze. She raced into the backyard and searched frantically but couldn’t find him anywhere. Bullet! Come, boy! She kept calling—he always came when called. She crossed the lawn, struck something tangled in the grass, and stooped to retrieve the object. She froze. Tranquilizer dart. Fear turned to panic. Oh, God, no!

Sirens blared in the background, one louder than the others, reminding Darcy of Charlene. In seconds, she heard a vehicle pull into the drive. She left the dart in the grass and rushed back to her sister, arriving as one of the paramedics knocked on the side door. She let the EMS in.

Neighbors drifted up the driveway, and soon a crowd had gathered, their presence obscured by the double layer of mesh on the old screen door. Some called to her as they approached the house, but she ignored them.

Under the table in the nook, said Darcy to the last of the four paramedics as they filed through the mudroom into the kitchen. She let out a long-overdue sigh and joined the medics who were already attending to Charlene. Emotionally stressed, Darcy sank into a chair.

Radios crackled. The telephone rang. Voicemail answered. A cell phone chirped a melody. Not hers, she was glad to see. The inquisitive hum in the driveway grew until it sounded as if fifty people resided at 10 Mandalay.

Sis, said Charlene, as two paramedics strapped her to a stretcher.

Darcy launched herself out of her chair. Here.

Where’s Bullet?

I don’t know, said Darcy, so worried the words stuck in her dry throat.

Sis, the man ...

Yes?

Charlene coughed. He wore a black ski mask.

3

Two officers entered the kitchen and worked their way around the paramedics to Darcy, their presence adding to the commotion. At least Osborn hadn’t been the one to respond to the nine-one-one call. She’d had her fill of him and homicide detective William Geary during the T-Cal debacle when, as usual, Geary had jumped to a conclusion: that a serial killer had struck, which proved wrong. She had stuck to her intuition that it was a random murder and solved the case. The investigation had won her public acclaim and Geary a reprimand from his boss, Captain Hume. Since then, Geary’s resentment had turned into a full-scale vendetta.

Ms. McClain. Darcy glanced sideways at the man. I’m Sergeant Siler, the veteran officer said. And this is my partner, Officer Cox. He motioned to the young man planted near the mudroom door.

I’m not going without my sister, Charlene glared at the paramedics. Since the trip to the ER was merely a precaution, the EMS agreed to wait before transporting her to the hospital.

Siler cleared his throat. Ms. McClain, can you tell us what happened?

Regarding the attack itself, not much, Darcy said. She wanted to cut the interrogation short and have Charlene tended to so she could hunt for Bullet.

Tell us what you do know. He jotted something on a notepad.

Old school, Darcy noted. She relayed the events of the morning, concluding with a brief description of Sean’s murder.

Charlene sat up, her eyes wide. Sean ... m-murdered?

We don’t know for sure.

That’s terrible. All of this. I don’t understand, Charlene said.

Darcy hugged her sister.

Did you find Bullet?

No. Someone left the back gate open, she lied, and he got out. I’ll search for him as soon as we get home.

He’ll come back. He isn’t one to roam.

Bullet?