Page 38 of A Deeper Darkness

Susan was no stranger to guns. She’s been around them all her life. This one in particular had been a gift from her father on Eddie’s second deployment. “Just in case,” he’d said with his characteristic gruffness.

Susan wanted to close her eyes and revel in the memory, but forced it away and started walking, slowly, carefully, into the kitchen. The house was broken into sections: the kitchen, eat-in and family room were open, the dining room was through a small swinging door and led to the wide living room. She crept through the rooms, into the foyer, the den, Eddie’s office, then eyed the upstairs. She’d be the most vulnerable on the stairs. Hugging the wall, she crept up, one step at a time, thankful again for the silk runner she’d laid. It kept her footfalls silent. Stealthy.

She cleared the girls’ rooms first, then the guest bedroom, her own office, then went into the large master suite.

Her discarded Redskins baseball cap was sitting squarely in the middle of the bed.

Chapter Twenty

Washington, D.C.

Raptor Offices

Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher admired the glass-and-steel building nestled against the older, more sedate brick of the original wall of the Navy Yard. The Raptor headquarters looked inviting, but to get inside Fletcher had to travel through three security checkpoints. Defense contractors were all the same to him, hiding away inside their shiny metal boxes, fiddling with the security of the world. He preferred his criminals front and center, thank you very much, not amorphous maybes disguised in the cloaks of friends. He thought it sad that the days of gentlemen’s warfare had drawn to an abrupt close—once you have the ability to sneak up on your enemy, and the balls not to care about the consequences, war inevitably became inequitable.

Of course, being on the side of might was a good thing.

Finally inside the quiet, cool, building, Fletcher approached the reception desk. A young woman with slicked-back hair and a nice sharp jawline looked up and said, “May I help you?”

You can give me your number, sweetheart.

“Detective Darren Fletcher for Mr. Deter, please.”

“Of course. Mr. Deter is expecting you. Right this way.”

Fletcher followed the woman, admiring the view, through a set of steel-and-glass doors. She used an optical scanner to unlock the outer door. Raptor took their security seriously.

A thin, balding man met them on the other side.

“Thank you, Veronica. That will be all.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, turning and exiting through the doors. They slid closed behind her, a brief pneumatic hiss. Fletcher felt terribly secure, and somewhat sorry the lovely Veronica wouldn’t be accompanying him onward and upward.

“I’m Rod Deter. Come on in.”

Deter led Fletcher through a warren of halls, stopping briefly in front of a small stainless kitchenette. “Coffee? Soda?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good. This is us.”

Using another optical scanner, Deter unlocked a nondescript door. Fletcher was impressed; the doors along the white hallways seemed devoid of marking. Maybe he just counted his way down from the kitchen.

A standard office space spread before them, cubicles in the middle, offices along the walls. They walked east, toward the bank of silvery windows that overlooked the river.

“I take it you have some sort of news? Your people already went through Eddie’s computers—did they find anything that helps explain his death?”

“No,” Fletcher answered. “There was nothing on them that pertained to anything other than his daily work with you. I just have a few more questions.”

Deter motioned toward an open door, his gleaming office. The man took his MBA training to the max: there was nothing out of place. The desk was clean except for a single piece of paper. His schedule, no doubt. It seemed almost prosaic in this advanced building—surely they were paperless, all electronic, with their schedules printed on the insides of their arms each morning in binary code.

Fletcher settled into an elegant Eames chair, just a few strips of leather and metal defying gravity. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“When was the last time Mr. Donovan traveled to Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Deter took his seat at the desk.