“Thank you so much. And that color—your gown—it’s gorgeous on you.”
“Grazie.”
Sasha hurried through the lobby, the sharp clack of her heels on marble, echoing with each step, Outside, the air is sharp for a spring night after the overheated ballroom. She pulls her wrap tighter, looks up and down the street.
No Linda.
She walks around to the side of the building that faces the metro station. And she sees it. Sees her.
A body lies on the ground under a streetlamp, in a puddle of yellow light.
Sasha lifts the hem of her long fitted gown and sprints. She comes to a stop and crouches beside the body. Beside Linda.
She’s not moving. Only her pale pink silk shawl flutters in the breeze. Her body is still.
Sasha checks for a pulse. Nothing. She’s gone.
Even as Sasha’s stomach twists, she scans the scene, cataloging every detail. There’s an injection mark on Linda’s neck. A pinpoint drop of dried blood visible even in the streetlight.
The phone and keys are missing from the silver beaded clutch on the ground beside her. A tube of lipstick has fallen out of it.
Sasha pulls out her phone, calls 911 with one hand while continuing her assessment.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I need police and ambulance at the Dickinson Literary House. I have a body. Female, early to mid-sixties. She’s not breathing.”
She stays on the line. Gives details. Watches Linda’s still face.
Connelly strides toward her. “There you are. What are?—?”
He crouches next to her and looks down at Linda.
Sasha covers the phone speaker with one hand and points. “Injection mark,” she says quietly. “And her phone and keys are gone.”
His expression hardens. Professional. Operational. “The archives.”
“We need get to those files before her killer does.”
“Go.” Connelly pulls out his phone. “I’ll call Hank and then get Will and Naya to stay with her body until the police arrive. I’ll meet you at Linda’s.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She kisses him once, hard, and starts to stand. “Be careful.”
He pulls her toward him for a second kiss. “You too.”
Then she runs to the corner, cursing her dress and her shoes. A red cab is about to roll through the empty intersection. She steps into the street, flags it down, and slides into the backseat as sirens approach in the distance.
She gives the driver Linda’s address and turns to look out the back window. Naya and Will are already walking toward Connelly.
“Is that—,” Naya starts.
“Linda Morrison,” Leo says grimly. “She’s dead. Sasha already called 911.”
Will turns back to the building. “I’ll coordinate with building security. Make sure they preserve any camera footage.”
Naya and Leo stand together, keeping a silent watching over Linda until the police arrive.
After a few minutes, Naya eyes him. “So, nothing’s changed, huh? New job, same danger?’
