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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

Once Lassie and I have eaten, I call my dad. Knowing he is coming two nights later to play cards, we only chat for a couple minutes. I wait for him to ask about the murder, but he doesn't. I will tell him in person in two days. His face will be priceless.

As for the murder, I wonder if the police have connected the woman to the most powerful man in the world yet. Was she one of Connor Sullivan's aides? An intern?

And what about the President? Who should I tell? Should I write an anonymous email and send it to the Alexandria police? I’m not so naive that I think I can accuse the President of the United States of murder and not face some sort of repercussions. No matter how sure I am that it was him—and I am unwaveringly positive—there would be backlash. Not to mention how unbelievable the idea was. First, where was the President's Secret Service? Did they know? Had they arranged the tryst? Did the President somehow sneak from the White House unknown? Could it happen? I wasn't sure. What I did know was that when the President should have been asleep in his bedroom at the White House, he was in the house across the street from me strangling a woman to death.

I'm about to start crafting said email when I notice a small rectangular card near my front door.

"Grab that card," I tell Lassie.

He jumps off my lap, licks the card, but comes short of retrieving it.

I shake my head at him and grab it.

Ingrid Ray, Alexandria Homicide.

The police had probably spent the better part of yesterday canvassing the neighborhood to see if there were any witnesses. Knocking on my door and not getting an answer, she'd slipped her card under my door. I pull out my cell phone and dial. She would no doubt be asleep, but I plan on leaving a message that I'd heard about the murder but I hadn't seen anything.

Surprisingly, she answers.

"Ray, Alexandria Homicide."

"Oh, hi, um, my name is Henry Bins. You slipped your card under my door?"

"Where do you live?"

I tell her.

"I'll be there in five." She hangs up.

I look at Lassie and say, "Well, that didn't go according to plan."

...

She shows up seven minutes later.

It is 3:33 a.m.

She has auburn hair held pack in a ponytail. She is clad in jeans and a Washington Redskins hoodie. She doesn't have a trace of makeup on. She doesn't need any. High cheek bones. Brown eyes. Too attractive to be a cop, which probably accounted for her no-nonsense demeanor.

"So, you always up at this time?" she asks, taking a seat at my kitchen table and running her hand over Lassie's arched spine.

I decide for the short answer. "Yep."

"You some sort of weird writer or something?"

"Nope. Day trader."