Page 4 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

“What was that?” a distraught Eileen O’Dell said, her hands trembling. “Oh my God, what was that?”

“Whatever it was, it was far away, Eileen,” Sampson said, trying to keep her calm. “I know this is difficult, but anything you can tell us about Trey’s routine, especially in the morning, might help us figure out who did this to him.”

Eileen’s twenty-five-year-old husband, Trey O’Dell, had been shot to death around four a.m. that same day. He was the fourth young man to die in a very-early-morning ambush on thestreets of the nation’s capital since the beginning of the year. Sampson and I had been assigned to the case of what the media was calling the Dead Hours killings.

John was a senior detective with the Metropolitan Police Department’s homicide unit. I used to be with MPD’s homicide unit as well, but now I worked as an investigative consultant to both the department and the FBI, where I’d once served as a profiler. I rubbed at the ache in my chest, still getting over a wound that had almost cost me my life.

“I don’t know what I haven’t told you and the other officers already,” the new widow said, on the verge of breaking down again. “Didn’t anyone see it happen?”

“No one has come forward yet,” I told her. “But you said it was his normal route?”

“Not always, but often enough. He kept a diary of his runs, the routes and everything, you know. You’ll see it all on his laptop.”

“What about the early hour? Was that unusual?”

“No,” she said. “Trey never needed much sleep. He was always up early. And he liked to run before work.”

“What’s the name of the school where he taught?” Sampson asked.

“Woodrow Wilson.”

“Good school,” I said.

“He was a good teacher,” she said, her voice quivering. “The kids loved him. Everyone loved him. I just don’t understand how I can go to bed and he’s there and I wake up and the police are pounding at my door and he’s not.” She started crying again. “This isn’t supposed to happen to newlyweds. It just isn’t.”

I felt terrible. They’d been married in June and moved down from Boston after Trey landed the teaching job.

“You said your mother and sister are on the way?” I asked, handing her a tissue.

Eileen dabbed at her eyes as she nodded, then blew her nose. “Mom and Eva should be here in an hour or so. And Trey’s mom and dad after that. How am I going to get through this?”

“With their help,” Sampson said.

“They’ll hold you up if you hold them up,” I said.

She nodded, looking blank and bleary-eyed. “At least they didn’t have to see him.”

I knew she’d gone down to the morgue earlier in the day to identify her husband. “You were brave, saving them from that.”

“Or I’m an idiot,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forget what I saw.”

“You’ll never forget him,” Sampson said. “But that other memory will fade.”

“I hope so,” she said as more tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t take this feeling much longer.”

I said softly, “My first wife was murdered, Eileen. It’s part of why I do what I do. I can tell you the next few days are going to be rough. But your family is coming, and it takes time, a lot of it, but you will get through this. You will have a life again. You will know happiness again.”

She cried harder. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to be happy again.”

Before either of us could answer, my cell phone and then Sampson’s dinged with texts telling us to call dispatch.

“I’ll take it,” I said, walking over to the other side of thesimply furnished living area. “This is Alex Cross,” I said when the dispatcher answered.

“Drop whatever you’re doing, Dr. Cross, and head to Reagan Airport,” she said. “A jet just crashed and exploded on the runway. The chief and the FBI want you and Sampson there pronto.”

CHAPTER 6

BY THE TIME WEleft Eileen O’Dell, promising to check on her later, sirens were wailing everywhere as police and fire crews raced to Reagan National. Two helicopters were in the sky when we pulled out, bubble on, our siren joining the chorus.

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