No answer from inside the apartment, so I pounded my fist on the door. Was everyone okay in there? “Police, open up! D.C. police!”

I could hear a woman shouting inside. I had my Glock out, the safety off. I was angry enough to kill Shafer. I didn’t know if I could hold myself back.

The uniformed patrolmen took their pistols out of their holsters, too. After just a few seconds I was ready to kick down the door, search-and-seizure constraints or no. I kept seeing Patsy Hampton’s face, her dead, vacant eyes, the savage wounds in her crushed throat.

Finally, the door to the apartment slowly opened.

A blond woman was standing there — Dr. Cassady, I assumed. She wore an expensive-looking light-blue suit with lots of gold buttons, but she was barefoot. She looked frightened and angry.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “What the hell is going on here? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve interrupted a therapy session.”

Chapter 73

GEOFFREY SHAFER stepped into the doorway and stood a few feet behind his irate therapist. He was tall and imposing and very blond. He’s the Weasel, isn’t he?

“What the hell’s the problem here? Who are you, sir, and what do you want?” he asked in a clipped English accent.

“There’s been a murder,” I said. “I’m Detective Cross.” I showed them my badge. I kept looking past Shafer and Dr. Cassady, trying to spot something that would give me probable cause to come inside the apartment. There were lots of plants on the sills and hanging in windows — philodendron, azalea, English ivy. Dhurrie rugs in light pastels, overstuffed furniture.

“No. There’s certainly no murderer here,” the therapist said. “Leave this instant.”

“You should do as the lady says,” Shafer said.

Shafer didn’t look like a murderer. He was dressed in a navy suit, a white shirt, a moiré tie, a pocket square. Impeccable taste. Completely unruffled and unafraid.

Then I glanced down at his shoes. I almost couldn’t believe it. The gods had finally smiled on me.

I pointed my Glock at Shafer. At the Weasel. I went up to him and bent down on one knee. My whole body was trembling. I examined the right leg of his trousers.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, pulling away from me. “This is completely absurd.

“I’m with the British Embassy,” Shafer then stated. “I repeat, I’m with the British Embassy. You have no rights here.”

“Officers,” I called to the two patrolmen who were still outside the door. I tried to act calm, but I wasn’t. “Come here and look. You see this?”

Both patrolmen moved closer to Shafer. They entered the living room.

“Stay out of this apartment!” The therapist raised her voice close to a scream.

“Remove your trousers,” I said to Shafer. “You’re under arrest.”