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One year ago…

Baltimore, Maryland

C asper Capelli was just drunk enough. The tremble in his hands was from fear, not a lack of alcohol. He rechecked the rearview mirror as he drove the sleek BMW into the familiar, rundown section of town. He hated driving at this time of day when dusk transformed typical objects into frights.

“Play Chopin.”

The car filled with soothing music, but it did little to calm his nerves.

Casper was paranoid by nature and had become increasingly so throughout his career.

Not without reason—his research had often been top-secret government work.

In his heyday, Casper had bodyguards. Now, he was responsible for his own well-being.

It was nothing , he insisted, repeating the mantra out loud to calm himself.

One week ago, Casper had flown to New York to meet a friend for the premiere of Rigoletto at the Met.

He was hanging his tux in the hotel room closet when he realized the dry cleaner had failed to remove a red wine stain from the shirt’s placket.

He had rushed to Bergdorf’s to buy a replacement.

There, in the men’s department, a customer he recognized wandered in, casually browsing the racks.

Casper never liked his former colleague.

The man used to sew Armani labels into his cheap suits.

Now, it appeared he was wearing the real thing.

Despite his animus, Casper walked in the man’s direction, never one to pass up a networking opportunity.

As he approached, something gave him pause.

Perhaps it was how the other man shopped—almost feigning interest in the clothing.

Whatever the reason, Casper stood to the side and observed.

After a few minutes of perusing blazers and discreetly checking his surroundings, the man absently grabbed a sportcoat and walked to the fitting rooms.

Ever the conspiracy theorist, Casper withdrew his phone and followed.

Aware of how it would look if he were caught recording in a dressing area, he slipped the phone in front of the pocket square in his blazer.

In the open area outside the private changing rooms, his former colleague dropped a thick envelope into the shopping bag of an impeccably dressed Asian man.

Without acknowledgment, the recipient left, joined by two bodyguards.

When Casper turned back, the object of his petty surveillance was carelessly tossing the jacket he held onto a chair.

“Sir!” The salesman called, waving the folded tuxedo shirt. “We had one in the back in your size.”

Casper’s colleague looked up at the disruption, and the two men briefly locked eyes.

Erring on the side of caution, Casper feigned ignorance and returned to the counter to pay for the shirt.

Once safely in a cab on Fifth Avenue, Casper chastised himself for not saying hello.

His love of spy novels had eclipsed his rational mind, and he had twisted what was no doubt an innocent encounter into a suspicious event.

Tapping play on the video, Casper watched the odd exchange again.

He did wonder who the other man was. Casper had the driver drop him at the bodega a block from his hotel.

After downing three airplane bottles of vodka, he decided the whole thing was a non-event.

Until the cars appeared.

For several days, Casper noticed strange vehicles parked across the street from his home.

Occasionally, it was a repair van, sometimes a dark sedan.

Despite the dozen innocuous reasons Casper listed for the various cars’ presence, he couldn’t stop the pervasive dread consuming him.

He loved and hated the idea he had stumbled into danger.

Casper Capelli, protagonist in a spy thriller, was a far more appealing role than Casper Capelli, disgraced scientist.

It was that desire for intrigue that had prompted Casper to copy the video onto a flash drive and send it to his old friend and colleague, Milton Abernathy, via snail mail.

He had walked to his local pharmacy in dark glasses and a trench coat and dropped it in the mailbox on the corner.

That was nearly a week ago, and Milton had not responded.

As soon as he’d sent it, Casper felt like a fool. He already had a reputation for hyperbole. That was probably why Milton Abernathy hadn’t called him about the video. Perhaps a more casual follow-up would cast him in a better light.

He didn’t know if he truly wanted Milton’s thoughts on the video or if he simply needed the security of a human voice, but whatever the reason, Casper commanded, “Call Milton Abernathy.”

He needed to get ahold of himself.

Hence, this outing to the liquor store.

While the call connected, Casper grabbed the tepid coffee in the drink holder.

It was half vodka and tasted terrible, but needs must. He polished off the remains and attempted to return the empty cup to the slot.

Casper missed the console, and the cup toppled onto the driver’s side floor.

With one hand on the wheel, he fished between his legs with no luck.

The BMW was just a year old; he would be livid if the carpet was stained.

Casper took his eyes off the road to scan the footwell. Where was the damn thing?

The beep of the voicemail sounded as a car blew past him, laying on the horn, causing Casper to jump in his seat and swerve.

He righted the sedan and pressed the accelerator when the traffic light up ahead turned yellow.

Rattled by the near miss, Casper left a far less matter-of-fact message than he intended.

Speeding through the intersection, he disconnected the call and spotted the flickering neon sign marking his destination.

Casper rechecked the mirror and scanned the block, unsure if he was relieved or distressed to find it deserted.

Above him, clouds were seeping across the darkening sky.

His luxury car rumbled over the cracked asphalt as he pulled into his usual parking spot on the side of the building. Two young men exited the store, holding a case of beer, laughing, and hurrying to their SUV.

In a rare moment of clarity, Casper’s face squeezed, and he banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

His need for alcohol had cost him over the years, but he long ago concluded that there was no price he wouldn’t pay.

With a calming breath, he regained his composure.

No point in getting angry over things he couldn’t control.

He was out of vodka. He always purchased a lovely half-bottle of Ketel One at his local specialty foods market, nodding to his neighbors and the familiar staff as he shopped.

Then, he would drink it as he drove to Lloyd’s Liquor for the cheap half gallons he would consume during the week.

He paid cash, never spoke. No one was the wiser.

Appearances were everything.

With a chirp of the key fob, Casper walked into the store.

He was in and out in under a minute with three large plastic bottles in a paper grocery bag nestled in the crook of his elbow.

The man appeared out of nowhere, a featureless hulking haze. Casper noticed, as he looked down in confusion, that his own legs were not supporting him, his body suspended by the hilt of the knife in the assailant’s gloved hand.

His final thought as the world shrank to a pinpoint was that he could have used that drink.

D etective Brumeister stood over the body in the pitted parking lot and stared at the ominous sky. Litter blew past his feet, and the broken neon sign in the liquor store window flickered and buzzed.

“We need to get the meat wagon here pronto. Storm’s comin’.”

The patrolman who was first on the scene appeared at his side. “It’s on the way, boss. Single stab wound to the chest. Looks like a wide serrated blade.”

“Killer knew what he was doing,” Brumeister said as he stared at the victim’s blood-soaked chest. “The guy was dead before he hit the ground.”

Brumeister scanned the body—neatly trimmed beard, expensive haircut, pub nose, jagged wound directly into the heart, decent shoes. He sank down and, with the tip of his pen, opened the brown paper bag still clutched in the victim’s arm. The necks of the plastic vodka bottles peeked out the top.

“Nice ride.” The patrolman cupped his hands around his eyes and looked through the window of the silver BMW. “Got all the bells and whistles. Why’s a guy who drives that buying booze at this dump?”

Brumeister pushed to his feet with protesting knees. “Smell that?”

The patrolman nodded. “First thing I noticed. You can smell the guy’s cologne from the interstate.”

“Yellow eyes, masking scent, out of the way liquor store. I’ll bet my Raven’s tickets this guy’s blood alcohol is already over the limit. He’s got ‘functioning alcoholic’ written all over him.”

“Well, that explains it, I guess.”

“Do we know who he is?” Brumeister asked.

The cop shook his head. “Wallet’s gone. No surprise there. Running the vehicle registration now.”

Brumeister examined the victim’s left wrist, noting the tan line. “He had a watch too.”

The patrolman came to his side, eager to impress. “Looks like a straight-up mugging.”

At Brumeister’s non-response, the officer added, “Right?”

The sky flashed with distant lightning.

The headlights of the coroner’s van swept the lot, but the detective didn’t move his gaze from the body.

Brumeister’s partner, Jasmine Alonso, joined him with a copy of the store’s CCTV footage.

They had worked together for six years and were known around the precinct as Bru and Jazz—they joked about opening a bar with that name when they retired.

“I know that look,” Jazz said. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Why didn’t he take the vodka?”

Jazz took a bite of the hotdog she grabbed in the liquor store. “Ugh, God, this thing tastes like a bandaid.”

“So maybe stop eating it.”

Jazz ignored him and continued chewing. “What was your question?”

“He steals the wallet and watch but leaves the booze?”

“Maybe the killer doesn’t drink shit vodka.”

Brumeister stepped back and nodded for the M.E.’s people to clear the body. “Two kinds of perps in this neighborhood. A banger takes the car. Fob’s in the D.B.’s pocket. Easy enough.” He held up two fingers. “A junkie takes the money and the booze.”

“He coulda panicked.”

Brumeister stopped the gurney and lifted the victim’s houndstooth blazer. “Does this look like the work of someone in a panic?”

“Well shit, Bru. You always gotta make it hard.” Jazz took the last bite and balled up the foil paper.

“Get some sleep. I’ll bring Joe’s Donuts in the morning,” he said.

Jazz walked backward as she instructed, “White iced, lemon filled, and cinnamon. Don’t go off script with your weird-ass donut flavors.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brumeister watched as Jazz climbed into her Accord and drove off.

He turned to do the same when something caught his eye.

He knelt and, using a folded latex glove from his pocket, picked up the generic cardboard sleeve for a to-go coffee.

He examined the Sharpee order written across it: Lg5Spl followed by a little heart.

Bru felt that familiar buzz. No barista was putting a heart on this vic’s coffee cup.

The guy was at least sixty and looked like Ebenezer Scrooge.

The wind had been gusting all evening. For the sleeve to get trapped under the body, it must have been dropped right when the victim hit the ground.

Which meant that this non-vodka-drinking junkie thief who could wield a knife with military precision also drank—he deciphered the code—large coffee with five Splendas.

Bru dropped the cardboard circle into an evidence bag and pocketed it. An inverted umbrella blew past his feet as the skies opened. Jogging back to his Chevy, Bru took a final glance at the scene.

This case smelled worse than the dead man’s cologne.

A s boaters and fishermen battened down the hatches and raced for cover, one motorboat pulled slowly out of the marina and headed into the Chesapeake Bay. A mile out to sea, the sole occupant sent a text from the untraceable burner phone:

The Priest: It’s done.

He neither expected nor awaited a reply as he tossed the bloody hunting knife into the water; Capelli’s wallet and watch followed. The clothes he had worn were in a paper bag to be burned.

The angry waves and sheets of rain had no impact.

The man tugged up the hood of his slicker and pulled a beer from the small cooler at his feet.

After checking his account to confirm final payment, the phone followed the knife into the ocean, and he guided the boat back to shore, casually sipping his Budweiser as lightning lit the sky.