IT WAS past five-thirty in the evening before I even got to think about leaving Union Station. I’d been trapped inside all day, talking to witnesses, talking to Ballistics, the medical examiner, making rough sketches of the murder scene in my notepad. Sampson was pacing from about four o’clock on. I could see he was ready to blow out of there, but he was used to my thoroughness.

The FBI had arrived, and I’d gotten a call from Kyle Craig, who had stayed down in Quantico working on Mr. Smith. There was a mob of news reporters outside the terminal. How could it get any worse? I kept thinking, the train has left the station. It was one of those wordplays that gets in your head and won’t leave.

I was bleary-eyed and bone weary by day’s end, but also as sad as I remembered being at a homicide scene. Of course this was no ordinary homicide scene. I had put Soneji away, but somehow I felt responsible that he was out again.

Soneji was nothing if not methodical: He had wanted me at Union Station. Why, though? The answer to that question still wasn’t apparent to me.

I finally snuck out of the station through the tunnels, to avoid the press and whatnot. I went home and showered and changed into fresh clothes.

That helped a little. I lay on my bed and shut my eyes for ten minutes. I needed to clear my head of everything that had happened on this day.

It wasn’t working worth a damn. I thought of calling off the night with Christine Johnson. A voice of warning was in my head. Don’t blow it. Don’t scare her about The Job. She’s the one. I already sensed that Christine had problems with my work as a homicide detective. I couldn’t blame her, especially not today.

Rosie the cat came in to visit. She cuddled against my chest. “Cats are like Baptists,” I whispered to her. “You know they raise hell, but you can’t ever catch them at it.” Rosie purred agreement and chuckled to herself. We’re friends like that.