Page 57 of Sharp Force

“He’d already moved into the house on Mercy Island,” Benton says. “He was staying there for the summer.”

“Does he have a car?” I ask, and Benton looks at his phone again, scrolling through information.

“A nineteen-sixty-eight Mercury Cougar,” he answers.

CHAPTER 19

“What about Georgine Duvall?” I collect a pair of tactical boots from my closet floor. “What does she drive?”

“A Cadillac Lyriq. Lucy says it’s charging inside the garage at Thirteen Shore Lane. Both cars are there.” Benton is putting on his watch and signet ring.

“Do we know where Zain was not even two months ago when Fiona Webb was murdered on Halloween?” I’ve carried my boots to a chair, sitting down.

“I’ve been sent his White House schedule. He wasn’t interning on Halloween. One would assume he was at William & Mary.” Benton steps in front of the full-length mirror.

“Williamsburg is a three-hour drive from here, depending on traffic. Not exactly close but a doable distance if you’re in and out of Northern Virginia committing crimes.” I pull on my socks.

“It appears that Georgine Duvall allowed Zain to stay at her place whenever he was up this way.”

“I wonder why?” I’m lacing my boots.

“It would seem she’s friendly with Senator Willard,” Benton says. “The two of them were at UVA together.”

“As I’ll keep pointing out, Zain’s been in striking range when each murder has occurred,” I reply. “And then he’s on Mercy Island staying in the same house with Georgine when she was killed a few hours ago. I must admit it makes me uneasy.”

“Most sexually violent psychopaths don’t commit suicide or self-injure. They don’t target their friends and housemates.” Benton looks in the mirror as he knots his tie.

“Most,” I repeat. “But not all.”

“There’s no evidence he has a history of mental illness or anything else alarming, according to his background check. You don’t intern at the White House without the Secret Service doing a deep dive into your life and everyone around you.”

“Even if your uncle is Calvin Willard?”

“Even then,” Benton says. “But it certainly gave Zain an advantage.”

“What do we know about him besides not seeming like someone who might be violent?” I return to my closet for a belt.

“An only child. His father was a lawyer and died when Zain was a kid. I suspect that’s when his rich, powerful uncle Calvin stepped in.”

“Died how?”

“An accident. A tree fell on him in their backyard.” Benton has his eyes on his phone. “Based on what I’m skimming in his background report, Zain grew up in D.C. He started interning at the White House three summers ago.”

“What do we know about his mother?”

“A pediatrician,” Benton says. “She lives in Seattle, remarried and moved there after Zain graduated from high school.”

“What do people say about him? Those who work with him atthe White House?” I ask, thunder cracking, the wind swooshing in the chimney.

“I know from my own encounters that he’s polite but a little weird.” Benton walks over to the fireplace.

He clanks the damper closed, sweeping white ashes off the hearth.

“Awkward and introverted,” he’s saying. “There have been no complaints about him being aggressive or even difficult.”

“His internship at the White House?” I ask.

“He’s at the Office of Science and Technology Policy.”