“Here’s a supercluster of 100,000 galaxies.”
Melanie and Matt drove past their potential client’s house, a white stucco tear-down on a lesser street in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country.
Max Renzi was running out of time. Scurrying through the crowd, his beady eyes scanning over the policemen, the TV reporters, the children clogging the sidewalk, he figured he had an hour, maybe two, before D.C. got too hot for him.
He’s a cop. I’m not. It’s a Ride-Along Program. I did one before. With a cop who wouldn’t talk.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think I may be a psychotic serial killer.”
The man sitting in my living room says to me, “I heard what you did for that other guy.”
Paul steered the deadrise boat around the shoals, keeping his distance from the shallow Chesapeake waters around the barrier island. Wouldn’t do to get stuck in the muck. Not today.
Another doorway opens and two more guys come through the door with guns. “What is this?” one guy says.
“This is our room. We’re here to get Ed.” “So are we.”