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  67. 3:46 a.m.

“Did you try tracking the cell phones?” asked Cooper.

Ingrid had given Beech the names and cell phone numbers of everyone at the wedding.

Beech nodded and said, “We tried tracking all of them. Only one had a signal. It was coming from one of the cars out front.”

Minister Robert’s car.

He was the only one who hadn’t brought a cell phone inside. The only one who hadn’t cared about taking pictures.

“They must have destroyed the others or taken the batteries out.”

Cooper exhaled, then said, “Well, let’s have a look inside the house, shall we?”

Tasha and Cooper started for the door of the van and Ingrid made to follow.

“Wait,” Beech said, grabbing Ingrid by the sweatshirt. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Ingrid glared down at his hand on her prized Redskins sweatshirt. Wisely, he released her.

“I’m a homicide detective,” Ingrid said curtly. “And I was there. And they have my partner. I’m going in.”

“No,” Beech said, with a smile. “You did your job. Now, why don’t you go take your honeymoon?”

The urge to kick him in the shins returned, though this time Ingrid wasn’t positive she’d be able to fight it down.

“She’s right,” said Cooper, his body halfway out the van. “We need her to be part of this.”

Beech’s brow furrowed. Though it was urban legend the FBI didn’t play well with others, especially local law enforcement, from Ingrid’s experience, the legend was more true than false.

Ingrid locked eyes with him.

Two seconds.

Three.

“Okay,” he finally shrugged. “But you leak anything to the local PD and your ass is grass.”

::::

Twelve hours later, Ingrid was sitting at a conference table at FBI Headquarters, just a mile from the White House. They hadn’t seen a single other car on the partially cleared roads, which, because of the snowplows, were shielded by ten-foot high walls of snow.

“This is the best I could do,” a young FBI staffer said, setting a bunch of croissants, muffins, bananas, and the like in the center of the table.

Ingrid and the other members of the task force looked at the spread questioningly.

“What is this crap?” asked Tim Welds — a beefy guy with close-cropped blond hair — from the Department of Homeland Security.

“Nothing is open,” the young woman said. “Not a single grocery store, supermarket, restaurant. Only five percent of the streets are plowed. No one can get out of their house.”

“I’m sure they aren’t eating this crap over at the White House,” Welds said, picking up a stale muffin, sniffing it, then putting it back down on the plate. “Why don’t you swing over there and get us some real food?”

Welds was alluding to the White House Situation Room, which more than likely was filled with the Vice President, Defense Secretary, the National Security Advisor, the Director for Counterterrorism, the Director of National Intelligence, the Directors of the FBI, CIA, and DHS, a couple people from the DOD, plus a few high-ranking military officials. FBI Deputy Director Beech was rumored to be there as well.