Washington, D. C., Monday…

Jay Sandoval stopped jogging long enough to take the call. Always cautious, she had the video switch in the off position. The person on the other end was mixing words in Spanish and English with sobs but she still recognized the voice.

"Dolores, that you? What's up, amorcita? What happened?" She flicked on the video in order to see her friend's face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Jay, John's dead. Claude Turner and Patty Smith are also dead. I don't know what to do." The last was almost a wail. Then more sobs. Finally, her friend continued. "The place is swarming with cops, and they won't let me see John."

"Hold on." Jay suddenly felt the stitch in her side. She always got it when she cooled down too fast. She was still sweating profusely on that humid Monday morning. Her running shirt was soaked, clinging tightly to her heaving breasts. She could feel the sweat trickle down her legs into her shoes. She started walking in circles, to keep the muscles loose. "How did he die?"

"Someone shot him." More sobs. "They were down in the morgue at the coroner's office in St. Mary's City."

"They were doing an autopsy? On Sunday night?"

"I guess. But they say there's no body. So no one can figure out what they were doing there. They're all shot up."