Jenn pulled up in a Taurus that was in even worse shape than the Cherokee. The car looked like it had been driven through an alleyway a quarter inch too narrow. However, whatever cosmetic damage the Taurus had sustained didn’t extend under the hood. Gibson could hear the throaty muscle of the engine as it came to a stop. Gibson shut the hatch on the Grand Cherokee and noted that it, like the Taurus, had Pennsylvania plates and a Penn State bumper sticker. He might not have a background in surveillance, but he appreciated people who paid attention to details.

The passenger door on the Taurus was locked. He rapped on the window and glanced in at Jenn. She shook her head and pointed one finger at the Cherokee. Hendricks honked.

“Are you kidding me?” Gibson mouthed.

Jenn’s window dropped an inch. “See you in Somerset.”

“Today,” Hendricks yelled.

“I will literally pay you to open this door.”

“I know what you make.”

Hendricks yelled for him to hurry up. Gibson gave Jenn one last imploring glance, but she just stared stonily into the middle distance, trying her damndest to suppress a smile.

Hendricks took them out of the city on the Clara Barton Parkway, which ran along the old C&O canal. Trees canopied the roadway, and they drove with the windows down. Gibson asked if he could put on the game. Hendricks pointed to the radio.

“Do you have a team?” Gibson asked.

“Dad liked the Dodgers. Don’t follow it myself.”

“Was he a cop too?”

“No.”

Gibson waited for Hendricks to go on, but that seemed the end of it. He reached for the radio.

“Studio engineer. Music. Did a lot of work for SST and Slash Records.”

“Cool. Any groups I’d know?”

“Not unless you’re into old punk bands. Black Flag?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Then you’re not going to know any of them.”

“So if your dad was into music, how did you end up a cop?”

“Applied to the academy. How do you think?” Hendricks flipped on the radio to mark the end of the conversation.

The Nationals were up 2–0 in the second. Duke would have loved having a ball club in DC again. When Gibson was growing up, the Orioles had been the next best thing to a home team, and Duke had taken him to ten or fifteen games a year. But if Gibson had to guess, he’d say his father preferred listening to the games on the radio. He remembered drives between Charlottesville and DC, listening to Mel Proctor and Jim Palmer call games. It was so boring. Listening to old guys on the radio describe something he couldn’t see. But like so much else, it had become a comfort as he grew older. Oftentimes, he didn’t even follow the game but enjoyed the soothing rhythm of it low in the background. Today was one of those times.