Stirred

April 1, 2:07 P.M.

Not for the first time since she had retired, Herb wished Jack was with him. She had an almost supernatural knack for finding clues at crime scenes, for figuring out things that didn’t add up. He understood why Jack had needed to retire, and supported her decision, but he hoped the building would be fully cleared soon so Jack could come up here and offer her impressions.

When Herb stared at Roe’s office, he didn’t see clues. He just saw an office.

Desks, chairs, plants, too many file cabinets to count…

File cabinets.

All offices had file cabinets.

But that tax attorney Herb had shooed out of the office down the hall, the one with the Clinton photo…where were his file cabinets?

Herb hadn’t noticed any.

Odd. So odd, in fact, that it made Herb uncomfortable.

Feeling a little spurt of adrenaline, he led Sakey back to 1212 and made a quick tour of the tax guy’s office.

It was small. No reception area. Just a desk and a computer.

And no file cabinets.

Herb grabbed his walkie-talkie.

“This is Sergeant Benedict. Put me in touch with the SRT leader. Over.”

“This is Lieutenant Matthews, SRT. What’s up, Sarge? Over.”

“When you swept the twelfth floor, why didn’t you escort the tax attorney down? Over.”

“What tax attorney?”

April 1, 2:08 P.M.

Unwinding his tie and tugging it off his neck, Luther eyes the exit. The atmosphere is electric. A touch of fear in the air. Confusion. Excitement. Lots of chattering, questions, complaining. A few jokes, some of the nine-to-fivers obviously excited that something interesting is happening in their drab, dull lives.

Something to tell the kids about over di

There are now only four people ahead of Luther in the exit line, and police are waving a metal detector wand over each person before allowing them to leave the building.

He checks his watch, trying to appear impatient.

A minute, two tops, and he’ll be out of here.

April 1, 2:08 P.M.

Herb checked the nameplate on the door and spoke into his radio, “David Dean, in twelve-twelve, over.”

“There was no one on the floor, Sarge. We checked every doorway. Even broke into a few offices. I don’t know about Homicide, but my team doesn’t make mistakes. When we do something, it’s done right. Over.”

The little spurt of adrenaline became a giant spike.

Herb walked behind Dean’s desk and turned on his monitor, still half-expecting to find a spreadsheet or an Excel document—some evidence of tax work.

Dean had been playing the videogame Angry Birds.

Herb lifted the Clinton photo, saw the blur lines around the president’s head—a mediocre Photoshop effort.

“Attention!” he yelled into his mike. “Suspect is in the lobby. He’s a white male, mid- to late forties, short brown hair, wearing a white shirt and a blue tie. He’s claiming to be an attorney named David Dean. Repeat, the suspect has short brown hair and is using the name David Dean.”

April 1, 2:09 P.M.

Jack stands less than six feet away.

She hasn’t glanced at Luther again, having already dismissed him.

He’s tempted to clear his throat, make a noise, see if she’ll notice, but he’s already cutting it too close.

Instead, he takes out his iPhone, hits redial, and slides the device into his breast pocket.

Jack paws at her phone, distracted by it, as the cop at the exit begins to check Luther for weapons.

April 1, 2:09 P.M.

I accepted the Blocked Call FaceTime request, but the screen was black.

I held the phone to my ear, heard the sound of numerous, muffled voices.

“Hello?” I said.

A second later, I heard, “Hello?”

But it wasn’t an answer.

It was my voice coming through the iPhone speaker.

An echo.

An echo meant another iPhone was picking up my voice.

It meant that Luther was here, in the lobby, with me.

Near me.

“He’s here!” I yelled, a big mistake.

While panic didn’t break out, there was an uptick in movement and commotion.

Since I wasn’t a cop, I didn’t have a radio.

I grabbed the lapel mike from the uniform standing next to me at the same time I heard Herb’s voice shouting through his earpiece that Luther was in the lobby.

As I sca

It was faint, but unmistakable.

“Okay, you can go.”

I looked to the exit as a thin, brown-haired man left the building.

“Stop him!” I yelled, but all the cops in the lobby were already in motion, closing the door after the man who had just left.

I hurried to them, trying to push my way past, but one of the officers grabbed my shoulders.

“He just walked out!” I yelled.

We both pushed through the door—

—into chaos.

Outside the building, the scene was bedlam.

Firemen, paramedics, cops, swarms of people waiting for their coworkers to emerge, a slew of media sticking microphones and cameras at anyone who stood still long enough…

But no sign of the brown-haired man.

April 1, 2:10 P.M.

Herb listened to the radio chatter. Orders were barked. Men complied.

No one found Luther.

Chewing his lower lip, Herb eyed the sawdust on the carpeting in Dean’s office. He looked at the paneling on the wall directly above it, saw that the color didn’t quite match on either side.

Herb put his fingers in the seam along the top and pulled.

The panel tore easily away, revealing a small, dark bathroom.

Herb saw a gun on the sink. A black T-shirt. Boots. A black wig.

It all came to him in a rush. Luther had pla