CHAPTER 8

PROFESSOR WHELAN PERKED UP at the question.

“I love to run,” she said. “Keeps me sane and it’s another reason I don’t drink at home or alone, or even in small groups. I like getting up early and running, or sometimes I run after work, to manage stress.”

I said, “It’s the social gatherings that are the trouble.”

“The big social gatherings, yes. There were at least two hundred people in the room that night.”

“So you don’t go to big sporting events?”

“Never. Complete trigger.”

Mahoney said, “Speaking of triggers—we read that you are a competition shooter in your spare time.”

She shrugged. “My late husband got me involved. It’s fun. A way to blow off steam on the weekends.”

“You good?”

“Not bad,” she said. “I don’t practice enough to be good.”

I said, “You said you run in the evenings sometimes.”

“I will this evening. The mornings have been too cold, even for me.”

“Wear a headlamp?”

“I do. And a reflective vest.”

Mahoney said, “Hat? Gloves?”

She squinted at him. “Gloves, yes. Hat, no. I wear a headband that keeps my ears warm and my head less steamy.”

I said, “Neck gaiter?”

“If it’s cold enough, yes.”

“Wear it up over your mouth?”

“If it’s cold enough,” she repeated. “What does what I wear to run have to do with your investigation?”

Mahoney glanced at me. I nodded. He reached into his suit coat and drew out a still from the doorbell-cam video footage showing the killer running past the house on the corner.

“That you, Professor Whelan?” Mahoney asked, handing her the picture.

Whelan took it, studied it.

“Could be,” she said, her eyebrows rising. “I mean, that is usually how I dress running at night this time of year, except for … where was it taken? Arlington?”

“Alexandria,” I said. “Just down the street from Judge Franklin’s home, not far from your place in Arlington. Two, three miles, depending on the route.”

“Really?” Whelan said, frowning and looking at the picture again. “I mean, maybe. I run different routes and take side streets at times. When did you say this was taken?”

Mahoney pointed at the time stamp in the corner that said 6:24:50 p.m. “That was yesterday. Just before Judge Franklin was shot.”

She tensed and sat forward, wary, but then made a sweeping gesture over the still shot. “It’s not me. In fact, it’s impossible. Not only do I wear bright yellow safety glasses, not orange, when I run in the evening, but I was home at that time, preparing one of those organic-food-in-a-box deals. I just got the subscription. It’s a pain in the ass, to be honest. Too much chopping for my taste.”

“Can anybody corroborate that, Professor?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t live with anyone, if that’s what you mean,” Whelan said.

“Neighbors see you?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “I pulled into the garage and used the remote to shut the door behind me.”

“Stayed in all night.”

“Yes.”

“No running?”

“It was my rest day.”

I said, “Did you talk to anyone on the phone? Text anyone? Answer any emails?”

She thought about that, then shook her head. “Nope. I just ate my stir-fried organic ground pork, kale, peppers, cabbage, and a bunch of hot spices and watched three episodes of that Mrs. Maisel show. She makes me laugh.”

“I like that one too,” Mahoney said. He got up out of the chair and dug out another still from a different doorbell camera.

In the still, the killer was running across the street toward Pearson, the driver, who was going around the back of the Cadillac to open Judge Franklin’s door.

“Notice the pack in your left hand,” I said when Mahoney set the picture in front of Whelan. “Notice the suppressed pistol in your right.”

“No,” she said, a slight waver in her voice. “That is not me. It is someone dressed like me. But I don’t wear that color safety glasses in the evening. I’m telling you, I am unequivocally being set up here.”

“If you are being framed, they’re doing a hell of a job so far,” Mahoney said.

I nodded. “You might want to think about shopping for a lawyer. Preferably one with experience in federal homicide cases.”

Whelan looked shaken. “Are you saying I’m under arrest for Emma’s murder?”

“Not yet, Professor,” Mahoney said, and we left.