Ethel patted him on the shoulder. “Good boy. This weekend I’ll take you to the range where you can fire some rounds. Now get out of here so I can change.”

She closed the bedroom door, pulled out her phone, and sat on the edge of the bed. She speed-dialed a number.

After a few rings, a man answered, “Warren Hitchcock.”

“Warren, it’s Ethel Crestwater. I need a favor.”

“Ethel. Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah. Glad to know you’re above ground too. Listen, are you still in evidence records?”

“Yep. You know me. File without mercy. What do you need?”

“I think I picked up a bogus bill. Can you run a serial number for me and see if it’s been flagged?”

“Sure. I’m in the middle of something, but I could do it later today. Will that work?”

“Yes, but as soon as you can, would be great. No need to call. Text me at this number whatever you find.”

She pulled from her pocket the counterfeit bill she’d kept. She read off the serial number.

Then she thanked him and disconnected. She went to her closet and looked at the dresses on the rack. What do you wear when you’re about to change a family’s world forever?

***

The black Cadillac Escalade crept along Rock Creek Parkway in the midst of the DC morning commute. The driver navigated through the throng of vehicles while his passenger in the rear seat navigated through the Washington Post.

FBI Director Rudy Hauser first looked at any headlines that could possibly connect to or reflect upon the Bureau. If something major had transpired overnight, he would have been informed immediately. But sometimes little unnoticed stories have a way of becoming big stories if not identified and addressed early. The classic example was a bungled minor burglary at the Watergate complex that appeared as a small news article in the “Local” section and mushroomed to bring down a president. That would not happen on Rudy Hauser’s watch.

The cell phone in the breast pocket of his dark suit buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Interesting. The call meant information.

“Yes.”

“You might not have heard, but a Secret Service agent was shot and killed earlier this morning.”

Hauser gripped the phone tighter. “And the president?”

“Not involved. The incident occurred around four thirty on North Highland Street in Arlington.”

Hauser knew the street well. “Anywhere near Ethel Crestwater?”

“Her front yard.”

“Jesus,” Hauser muttered.

“She’s okay. Bradshaw’s with her.”

“Got a name?”

“It’s being withheld till notification of next of kin.”

“Give me the name.” It was no longer a question.

“Jonathan Finch. Do you know him?”

Hauser’s pulse quickened. “No. But thanks for the heads-up.”