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that line of thought any further.
    He closed the Tiffany lid. It gave a final, fatal clap. He re-tied the white bow and secured the box in the safe. Turning his back on one future in favor of another, he staggered across the study to the adjacent bath … and threw up.

Chapter 6

    Downtown Alexandria, Virginia

    “W HAT DO WE have?” Cassi asked, trying to focus on the job at hand while still reeling from a shock of her own.
    Officer Foster looked down at his notebook and smiled, “We got us some fans of The King.” He cleared his throat. “Elvis Aaron Adams got laid-off from the canning plant today. Came home to find his wife—Priscilla, I kid you not—in bed with another man. Now Elvis is threatening to kill them both with his shotgun. For about ten minutes he was screaming his head off and throwing things, during which the widow who lives next door called us. Then things went silent.”
    “Have any shots been fired?” Cassi asked, remembering that this was the second time she had negotiated with a man named Elvis and wondering if that could be pure coincidence.
    “Not a one.”
    She nodded a couple of times as she processed the situation and then said, “Tell me about Elvis.” On any other day, she would have enjoyed the humor inherent in that sentence. Today she was not feeling the least bit whimsical. Officer Foster seemed to sense her mood.
    “He’s Caucasian, forty-three years old. Five foot six. Two years ago when his driver’s license was issued he weighed one-forty-five.”
    “Does he have a record?”
    “Not even a parking ticket.”
    “Do they have children?”
    “The neighbor says no. She says it’s just the two of them living there.”
    “How long ago did he return home?”
    “About forty minutes.”
    Cassi nodded as her processor kicked into overdrive. Forty minutes was a lot of cooling off time. It was also plenty of time to get worked up into a murderous frenzy or plunged down into a suicidal slump. Neither option looked good for Priscilla or her paramour. She decided to see how astute Foster was.
    “Is Elvis a drinker?”
    “The widow said yes, but when I pressed her on what that meant she admitted that it’s just a few beers on a Friday night.”
    Cassi said, “Nice work,” and pulled out her cell phone. “What’s his number?”
    “They don’t have a land line and both their cell phones are switched off.”
    She cringed. That was bad news. “Thank you Foster. I’ve got it from here.”
    Per regulations, Cassi knew that she should remain out of shotgun range. That would mean negotiating through a bullhorn. Whereas some of her colleagues preferred the authority of that technique, she used it only as a last resort or if drugs were involved. Her preference was always to try to connect with the perpetrator on a personal level. Without a phone, that meant she had to get close, close enough to Elvis for each of them to read the inflections in the other’s speaking voice.
    She had a decision to make. If her analysis was correct, Elvis was highly unlikely to shoot first and ask questions later. Yesterday that would have been good enough for Cassi. Today she was not sure. She had awakened at Wiley’s feeling funny. Then she had watched with teary eyes as a white urine strip grew a blue stripe. If she risked her life today, she would be risking two.
    A silenced scream emanating from the house made up her mind. She would ignore the regulation. Cassi ran to the front door and stood shielded by the frame. “Good afternoon, Elvis,” she said in a loud but friendly tone. “My name’s Cassandra Carr, Cassi for short. I’m here to help you. Would you please step toward the door so we can talk?” Pretty please with sugar on top.
    Elvis did not offer an immediate reply. That was to be expected. He needed a minute to make up his mind. Cassi tried to focus on something else to keep from getting nervous while she waited, like whistling her way through a graveyard. It was not difficult. Her