Reading from her notes, Jeannie recited what she’d uncovered when she ran his name. “History professor at Catholic University. Grew up in Massachusetts, one of two sons. Went to Princeton for undergrad, Harvard for graduate school. Has a Ph.D. in American history. He’s lived in the District for twenty-three years. Estranged from his brother Julian for the last thirteen years. Married with two grown sons, one an accountant, the other an attorney. His wife, Diandra, is a conservative commentator on the Capital News Network.”

“Yes, the hatemonger. We talked about her the other night at dinner. Julian was horrified by her.”

“I can see why, but she has a huge following.”

“Good work, McBride.” Pulling on to Sinclair’s street, she found a parking space and turned to Jeannie. “I appreciate your help with this one.”

“No problem. Have you spoken with the senator? Since we saw him earlier?”

“No.”

“I feel sorry for him.”

“I do, too.” Sam was trying her best not to think about how crushed Nick had been earlier. Lately, she had grown so accustomed to leaning on his quiet strength that she had no idea how to help him. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s strong.” But even as she said it, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be okay. “Let’s see what Mr. Sinclair has to say about the murder of his brother.”

Located in one of Washington’s more affluent neighborhoods, Sinclair’s brick-front townhouse was well tended. His wife, a striking blonde, answered the door.

“Mrs. Sinclair?” Sam showed her badge. “Lieutenant Holland, Metro Police. My partner, Detective McBride. May we have a moment of your time?”

“What’s this about?”

Nonplussed by the other woman’s curtness, Sam said, “We need to speak to you and your husband. May we come in?”

Resigned, Diandra Sinclair stepped aside to allow them in. No doubt decorated by a high-price interior designer, the house was furnished with an eclectic mix of antiques and contemporary pieces.

“Is your husband at home?”

“He’s very busy. It’d be better if you came back at another time.”

“We need to see him now.” Sam held the other woman’s furious gaze until Diandra turned away.

“I’ll get him.”

“Chilly,” Jeannie whispered.

“Seriously.”

She returned five minutes later with a man who bore a resemblance to his late brother but was several inches taller and a couple of years older.

Sam introduced herself and Jeannie to him.

“I’ve seen you in the paper,” Preston said.

“Mr. Sinclair, I’m very sorry to have to tell you your brother was murdered early this morning.”

Preston gasped. “What?”

Diandra reached out to her husband.

Sam gave them the few details she knew.

He moved to a sofa. His wife followed, sitting next to him and taking his hand.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam said.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.