“Karavi, did you get a look at the people who did this?”

“Just one man,” she whimpered to me. “He was huge.”

“Excuse me, sir,” one of the others interrupted, “but we need to speak with our lawyers before we say anything to police.” The speaker had an air of privilege about him; these twenty-somethings spent their Saturday nights in private boxes at a private club.

“You can talk to me,” I said to the girl.

“Nonetheless, sir-”

“Or,” I interrupted, “we can do this later tonight and tomorrow. After I'm done here with all of the others.”

“It's all right, Freddy,” Karavi said, waving off the boy. “I want to help if I possibly can. Daniel is dead.”

We sat off to the side for a little privacy, and Karavi told me she was a grad student in cell biology at Georgetown. Both her parents were in the diplomatic corps, which was how she knew Daniel Njoku. They had been best friends but were never a couple. Daniel's girlfriend, Bari Nederman, had been shot tonight too, but she was alive.

Karavi described the gunman as a lone black man, maybe six six, at least that tall, wearing dark street clothes. “And he just looked… strong,” she said. “He had huge, muscular arms. Everything about him was powerful.”

“How about his voice? Did he speak to anyone? Before he started to shoot?”

Karavi nodded. “I heard him say something like 'I have an invitation' just before he…” She trailed off, not able to finish the thought.

“What kind of accent?” I asked. “American? Something else?” I was pushing because I knew I'd never get a better, truer account than right now.

“He wasn't from here,” she said. “Not American, I'm certain of that.”

“Nigerian? Did he sound like Daniel?”

“Maybe.” Her jaw clenched as she fought back the tears. “It's hard to think straight. I'm sorry.”

“Anyone else here Nigerian?” I turned back toward the others. “I need someone with a Nigerian accent.”

One of the boys spoke up. “I'm sorry, Officer, but there's no such thing,” He had a Jimi Hendrix 'fro and an open tuxedo shirt showing off his skinny chest and jewelry. “I speak Yoruban, for instance. There is also Igbo, and Hausa. And dozens of other languages. I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to suggest-”

“That's it!” Karavi put a shaking hand on my arm. I noticed a few of the others in the party were nodding too.

“That's how the killer sounded. Just like him.”

Chapter 23

I WAS STILL at the nightclub murder scene around two in the morning, conducting interviews that had begun to blend one into another, when the cell in my trousers pocket rang. I figured it might be the Nigerian embassy and answered it right away.

“Alex Cross, Metro,” I said.

“Dad?”

Damon's voice on my cell shocked me a little. At two in the morning, why wouldn't it? What was up now?