CHAPTER 2

Washington, DC

AT SIX P.M. ON a mid-December day, Emma Franklin hurried out of the elevator and down a long hall in the basement of the Prettyman U.S. Court House. The tall forty-six-year-old carried a purse and a leather briefcase and wore a long gray puffy coat over her navy-blue pantsuit.

Franklin pushed through the door into the annex garage and was relieved to see her ride waiting. The driver, a tall redhead in her late thirties, jumped out of the Cadillac town car.

“Good evening, Judge Franklin,” she said, coming around to open the rear passenger door.

Franklin smiled. “How are you, Agnes?”

“Outstanding, ma’am. And you?”

“Just peachy,” the judge said. She climbed in and put her attaché case and purse on the seat beside her.

Agnes closed the door, got in the driver’s seat, and turned on the car. “I don’t hear that expression—‘just peachy’—too often.”

Franklin laughed. “It was something my grandmother used to say.”

Agnes put the car in gear and drove to the exit. “She lived in Georgia, ma’am?”

“Valdosta,” Franklin said. “Pretty place.”

“Had to be warmer than here,” the driver said, pulling by the guard shack and out onto C Street. Snow had begun to fall.

“I heard it’s going to be sixteen degrees tonight,” the judge said, and involuntarily shuddered. “Older I get, the more I can’t stand the cold.”

“I hear you,” Agnes said. She took a right on Third Street and headed south. “Days like today, I’m thinking Miami.”

“I’ll be there for Christmas.”

“Lucky you.”

“My brother bought a place and invited my sisters and their families and me.”

“That’s nice for you. First year after and all.”

Franklin smiled sadly and nodded. “How’s the divorce going, Agnes?”

“I keep telling myself I can see the finish line.”

Judge Franklin looked out the window at the Christmas displays, her mind flickering with memories of the prior December, walking at night in Alexandria, admiring the lights with her late husband, Paul. What a difference a year makes.

“What do you think of Sue Winter’s pick for attorney general?” Agnes asked.

Franklin turned, happy for the distraction and change of subject. “She made a solid choice in Malone. Impeccable record when he was U.S. attorney in Phoenix.”

“I was surprised she didn’t pick a woman,” Agnes said.

The judge shrugged. “Sue’s from Arizona and worked with Malone. And State and Defense have already gone to women.”

“I say load the entire cabinet with women. The more the merrier.”

Franklin chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

As they crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge, the driver asked, “Are you going to the inauguration?”

“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“What about the inaugural balls?”

Franklin looked out the window at the inky darkness of the river. “I haven’t decided if I’m ready for that yet.”

“Understandable, ma’am.”

The judge nodded and looked at her left hand, wondering when the time would be right to take off her wedding band. It had been almost nine months now.

They drove on in silence.

Ten minutes later, Agnes turned onto Franklin’s quiet street in Alexandria.

In the headlights’ glare, through the snowflakes, she saw a powerfully built, short-haired blond woman running down the sidewalk in a warm-up suit with a reflective vest, a neck gaiter, a fleece headband low over orange-lens safety glasses to block the snow, and one of those hydration backpacks. As they passed her, Franklin saw she wore a headlamp as well.

Agnes pulled into the drive of Franklin’s bungalow. “Home again, home again.”

Franklin looked at her dark house, said, “Jiggety-jig.”

Agnes left the headlights on, came around the back of the car, and opened the door. “Same time in the morning, Judge?”

“Fifteen minutes earlier, please,” Franklin said, climbing out with her briefcase and purse.

“Judge Franklin!”

Both the judge and the driver turned to see the blond runner on the sidewalk just a few yards away, her headlamp aimed down and between them. She was squared off in a horse stance, gripping a pistol with a suppressor with both hands. She said something, though Franklin did not catch the words.

“Why are—” Franklin managed before the woman shot her twice, once between the eyes, once over her right eyebrow.

Agnes spun, tried to run. The woman shot her twice between the shoulder blades, then bent over and retrieved the knapsack and the four shell casings from the sidewalk. She stuffed the casings and the gun in the little pack, zipped it up, put it on. She pushed hard against the left side of her neck, felt it crack, and jogged away.