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“She felt it was some kind of sophisticated money-laundering scheme,” Martin said. “And she would know.”

“How so?” Bree said, taking a sip of her coffee.

Her boss squinted. “I have to be delicate about this.”

“You had me sign all sorts of nondisclosure forms when I was hired.”

“Even so.” Martin hesitated. “Rosalynn is absolutely law-abiding herself, legit self-made and all that, but she’s a second-generation member of an Eastern European family that has, shall we say, attracted sustained attention from law enforcement.”

“Russian organized crime.”

“Sophisticated OC. Never been successfully prosecuted. The point is that Rosalynn did her due diligence on Frost and Lear and decided they smelled a little too familiar.”

Bree said, “It takes one to know one.”

Martin’s brows knit. “Rosalynn is not part of her extended family’s activities in any way. But, yes, point taken.”

After thinking about all this for several moments, Bree said, “How much money did Rosalynn think might eventually flow into the various F and L projects?”

“Could be hundreds of millions,” Martin said.

“Lot of motive there to get rid of people who might stand in the way.”

Bree described the homeless encampment and the recent murders, including the body discovered under the Bridge to Nowhere.

“The Firebug,” Martin said, using the nickname the press had given the killer. “I know that place. People call it a ghost ramp because of the way it just sits there crumbling by the river.”

“That’s it,” Bree said, then told her Frost and Lear had bought up almost all the property surrounding it.

Her boss said, “Sounds smart until you think that Rosalynn might be right, and a ridiculous amount of dirty money is going to vanish into whatever they build there and then come out clean on the other side.”

“Enough to justify a murder or two,” Bree said.

Elena Martin nodded. “Exactly what Rosalynn thought.”

66

IN OUR SQUAD CAR that morning, after I ran to the lab for a quick cheek swab, Sampson glanced over at me as he drove.

“What did you tell Ellen when she said she thought you’d called to say your brother was dead?” he asked.

“Dodged it,” I said. “Told her about Nana Mama, then added that I’d heard Charlie was homeless and I wanted to find him, see if I could help. She said I couldn’t, that Charlie was like a lot of men of a certain age—sure that all their chances had passed them by, bitter, lonely.”

“Kind of cynical,” Sampson said.

“With Charlie, she’s probably right,” I said, and sighed.

“You think it’s him, the first guy shot and burned?”

“That’s one of my worst nightmares, John. I don’t even know how to tell Nana and my father that Charlie might be on the streets.”

We were on our way to a private jet terminal, an FBO—fixed-base operator—at Dulles International Airport, about a forty-minute ride from the Bridge to Nowhere. Dulles had two of these FBOs to handle all the business and personal jets that landed there. Verified Air Services was the newer one and farther south from the commercial terminals. Sampson pulled up to the security gate and held up his credentials, and we were waved over to a large lot with half a dozen black Suburbans parked by the entrance. We went into a very sleek office with a high glass wall looking out over the FBO’s apron.

A couple in their fifties stood in front of a counter. Two black Labrador retrievers sat next to them.

“Your pilot will be right along, Mr. and Mrs. Cloud,” said the cheery woman behind the counter. “Your Caravan is being fueled, and you’ll be on your way back to Hilton Head before you know it.”

“The pilot should have been here by now,” the woman said brusquely. “We chartered for exactly noon, and it’s ten past. I mean, we’re ready, aren’t we, Phineas? And Mr. Biggs and Robby-Boy are ready.”