“Brief me later. I want to check one more thing.” She scooted around the rear of the Ford Escape, around the supine body, and, grasping a fistful of her nightgown to avoid leaving prints, she opened the front passenger door and popped the glove box. A black pistol and an extra magazine lay on top of the vehicle’s registration and insurance papers. “There we go,” she whispered. “There’s the Sig.”

Jesse stared open-mouthed at the petite grandmotherly woman. Brief me later? Beretta? Sig?

She snapped the glove box closed and shut the door.

The sirens sounded only a few blocks away.

Ethel stopped recording, grabbed Jesse’s arm, and pulled him up on the sidewalk. She looked around. “The neighbors, police, and EMTs will soon turn this into a zoo until the crime scene is secured. Did Jonathan say anything before he died?”

“He whispered, ‘Tell Ethel the secret.’ At least I think that’s what he said.”

“The secret? You’re sure that’s what you heard?”

“Yes, although it trailed off.”

“Okay, Jesse, here’s what we’re going to do.” She stepped closer to him. “You’ll give a statement to the police. So will I. They should question us separately. At this time don’t tell them what Jonathan said.”

“Lie to them?”

“No. If they ask, say he whispered something and you’re not sure what, but he didn’t say what happened or who shot him. I’ll tell them I came right behind you and heard nothing. Now I’m going to leave you.”

“Leave me?”

“Yes, tell the police I was overcome by what happened and went inside.” She started scrolling through phone contacts.

“What are you going to do?”

“Call Cory Bradshaw.”

“Who’s he?”

“Head of the Secret Service.”

“You know their number?”

Ethel began walking away. “Yes, but at this early hour it will be Cory’s personal cell phone. So, talk to the officers and buy me a little time. I should really search Jonathan’s room.”

The blue glow of flashing lights pulsed across the scene as racing vehicles braked to a stop. Jesse watched Ethel retreat into the shadows, her phone already at her ear. He didn’t know which stunned him more, the murder of Jonathan Finch or the actions of his seventy-five-year-old landlady.

Chapter 3

“Yes?” The single syllable stretched out from a sleep-clogged throat.

“Cory, get your butt out of bed. There’s a problem.” Ethel closed the front door and ascended the stairs, gripping the railing with her free hand to steady herself.

“Who is this?”

“Ethel. And you’ve got a dead agent in front of my house.”

“Ethel.” The voice was suddenly sharp and alert.

“Yes. The Arlington police are arriving. Jonathan Finch, who has a room here, has been shot next to his car. If he was on some special assignment, then you don’t want the locals trampling through it.”