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Sofria Kirk Stella Keen Samantha Kline

Baltimore, Maryland

S tella climbed the stone steps of the Baltimore police department’s central precinct. She wore a conservative black skirt suit, her now light-brown hair in a long braid, and an FBI badge tucked into her waist.

The Baltimore police department was a madhouse.

The stench of stale beer and B.O. had seeped into the mustard-colored walls.

Visitors and detainees awaiting processing sat crammed on metal benches.

A woman was shouting at the desk sergeant, demanding to see her son, and two cops were wrestling with a drunk who was yelling and threatening to “end their careers.”

Stella wound through the chaos. When the shouting woman paused to breathe, Stella flashed her badge and said, “Detective Brumeister?”

The desk sergeant waved her in without looking up from her computer screen. “Through the bullpen, First door on the left.”

Stella knocked on the open door, and Brumeister stood from behind his battered desk.

“Special Agent Kline?”

“Nice to meet you in person.” Stella shook his hand.

“Gotta admit, I was surprised to get your call. Doubly so for the visit. Why’s the FBI so interested in a year-old mugging?”

Stella took a seat, and Brumeister did the same. “There may be a connection to a case I’m working. Rest assured, it’s your case. We have no intention of stepping on any toes.”

“That case is so cold it’s gathering snow.” Brumeister slurped coffee from his World’s Greatest Dad mug. “I’d offer you a cup, but I’d hate to poison you on your first visit to the precinct.”

Stella laughed. “I’m fine.”

“I doubt I’ll be any help but ask away.“

“Nothing unusual about it?” Stella asked.

“It wasn’t keeping me up nights, if that’s what you mean,” Brumeister replied.

“The report you filed describes the murder as a mugging. I guess I’m asking if anything struck you as odd.”

“I remember the case because, at the time, it didn’t sit right.” Brumeister leaned on his forearms and laced his fingers. “For one thing, the mugger didn’t take the booze the guy was carrying. He stole the wallet and the watch but left three handles of vodka.”

Stella nodded in agreement.

“Then there’s the coffee sleeve.” Brumeister mimicked a ring around his coffee mug with his fingers.

“The night Capelli was killed, it was windy as hell. We found the sleeve under his body. I figured it had to come from him or the perp. The barista wrote the order in a Sharpie—black coffee, five Splendas—”

“Gross.”

“I know. But after the order, the barista added a flirty little heart. So I assumed the coffee had to be the perp’s.”

“Did the sleeve lead anywhere?”

“Nope. By then, the credit card company reported someone had used one of the stolen cards at a gas station near the crime scene, so we went with our initial theory: a mugging. It smelled a little funny, but we don’t have the time, the manpower, or the resources to chase every out-there theory.

” Brumeister tipped his chair back until it hit the wall.

Judging by the chipped paint, it was a frequent position.

“It looked like a duck and quacked like a duck.”

“All right.” Stella stood.

“Anything else we can do?”

“Did Capelli have a cell phone?” she asked.

“Yes. He left it in the car, so it was still at the scene. It’s in the evidence lockup.”

“I’d like to take a look if that’s okay.”

“Duty Sergeant is Jefferson. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“Thanks.”

“Who was this guy, Capelli?” Brumeister asked.

“Nobody special. I have another case with a similar M.O., so your case popped up when I entered the details.” Stella lied smoothly.

In the evidence lockup, Stella set the banker’s box marked with the corresponding case number on a small wooden table and lifted the lid. She slipped Casper Capelli’s cell phone into her pocket, thanked the officer, and left the way she came.

After pulling into a grocery store parking lot, Stella fast-charged the phone, bypassed Casper Capelli’s password, and checked his messages. There were no texts between Capelli and Milton Abernathy and no saved videos.

On a hunch, Stella checked the call log and hit paydirt. The night he died, Casper Capelli placed a call to Milton Abernathy that lasted thirty-four seconds. If Milton had answered, the call would have lasted longer. That meant Capelli had left a voicemail.

Stella groaned. She had one week before she had to be in the Maldives to establish her identity as Lady Sabrina Kittridge and start her new assignment.

She should let this go, but the pit in her stomach wouldn’t allow it.

Every time Stella tried to devise an alternate theory, she circled back to the spy.

A person who had no qualms about killing to cover their tracks.

She needed to return to the safe house and determine her next steps.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about running into Ren again. That little problem had been handled.