“Oh, it’s for both of you,” Nana said in a low voice that could have been mistaken for a growl.

“We’ve got a homicide in Franklin Square. A John Doe. It looks a lot like that freaky one I had before, over in Washington Circle?”

My fork stopped in midair. “With the numbers?”

“That’s the one. Any chance I can get you over here for a consult before things heat up too much?”

“I’m on my way.”

John and I never keep track of who owes how many favors to who. Our unwritten rule is, if you need me, I’m there. But make sure you need me.

A few minutes later, I was knotting my tie on the way down the back stairs toward the garage. It was practically still dark out, but light enough to show a mass of slate-gray nothingness overhead — cloudy with a chance of a shit storm.

Based on what I remembered of Sampson’s earlier case, this was exactly the kind of thing MPD could not afford to be investigating right now.

Months ago, a young homeless man had been found beaten to death, with a series of numbers carved carefully across his forehead. It probably would have hit every headline inside the Beltway — if the poor man hadn’t been a street junkie. Even at the department, the case hadn’t generated much heat, which wasn’t exactly fair, but you could drive yourself crazy over “fair” in this capital city of ours.

Now it had happened again. This was a whole new ball game. With the sniper case raging, MPD brass were going to have a hair trigger on anything even remotely sensitive. They’d want to flip this thing up to Major Case Squad before the morning was out.

I figured that was why John called. If the case got transferred to my unit, I could say I was already consulting on it, ask to take the lead, and then put Sampson back in charge. Just our version of creative accounting, and God knows it wouldn’t have been the first time.

Chapter 57

THE NUMBERS KILLER — Jesus God — not now.

When I got to Franklin Square, the entrances were already cordoned off. Additional units were parked on the longer K and I Street sides of the rectangular park, although the action seemed to be just off of Thirteenth, where Sampson was right now waving me over.

“Sugar,” he said when I came up close to him, “you’re a lifesaver. I know the timing sucks.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

Two crime-scene techs in blue Windbreakers were working inside the tape line, along with a medical examiner whom I easily recognized from behind.