In the open bay on a concrete floor, the mangled metal appeared more snarled and torn than it had on the street. Distracted by Elena and the jar, Melina had not fully absorbed the extent of the damage.

The center of the front grill and fender was bent, and the frame was angled out of alignment. The front passenger side was scraped, and the hood was crumpled.

“I’ll say it again,” she said. “I can’t believe BB was able to run.”

“Adrenaline was pumping. And given the surprise in the trunk, BB didn’t want to talk to the cops.”

The echo of footsteps brought their attention around to a young woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slim with short light-blond hair. Sharp gray eyes stared out from behind thick-rimmed glasses.

“Agents Ramsey and Shepard, I presume?” the woman asked. When both showed their badges, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Agent Henrietta Wagner. Henri to the crew around here. Matt worked until about 5:00 a.m. and has run home for a shower. But I’ve been working with him along the way.”

After an exchange of a few pleasantries, Henri walked them to the front of the car. “Not the worst crash I’ve seen. If the vehicle had struck the tree on the driver’s side, she or he would have been more seriously injured. But as luck would have it, this individual’s side of the vehicle was fairly intact.”

“Too bad. It would have saved us the chase,” Melina said.

“I’ve spent the last couple of hours dusting the car for prints, and needless to say I’ve pulled many. However, as we learned at the crime scene, none were pulled from the steering wheel or any of the normal places you would expect the driver to touch. But as Agent Ramsey suggested, we did dust the car seat and pulled up several good impressions from the side and the back buckle. Prints were fed into AFIS about an hour ago, so we are hoping for some kind of hit.”

Henri walked them over to a table filled with a variety of belongings that Melina recognized from her earlier look in the trunk. “Whoever packed the trunk used every available square inch.”

“Their entire life was in that trunk,” Melina said. She walked along the edge of the table, looking at the contents of one of the suitcases: eight sets of high-heeled shoes, sparkling tops and dresses, and a collection of black and red lace underwear.

“Looks like it. The driver enjoyed high heels, designer jeans, and sequins. There was also a stash of credit cards in one of the bags. They were all reported stolen. There was also a sling and a cane.”

“Our driver is a grifter or con artist,” Melina said.

“And likely has an arrest record,” Ramsey said.

Henri received a text. “Looks like you’re right. Our driver does have an arrest record. Just got back the AFIS results. Her name is Bonnie Lynn Guthrie. She’s fifty-nine years old and was born in Dallas, Texas.” She tapped on a link and turned the phone toward them. “This mug shot was taken in 2014. Arrested for credit card fraud and possession of heroin in Ventura County, California. After the fifth arrest, she was sentenced to ten years in prison. California cut her loose after five years, time served. She’s been out on parole the last year.”

“Has she checked in with her PO recently?” Ramsey asked.

“She missed her last appointment with her parole officer. Until then, she had checked in faithfully,” she said. “His contact info is in the text.”

“Can you text me that?” Melina asked.

“Number?” Henri typed as Melina recited the digits. “Done.”

Melina pulled up the image as soon as it hit her phone. A flicker of recognition tickled the back of her brain. She enlarged the face with the swipe of her finger. Old memories reached out from the shadows, and the odd sense of déjà vu grew stronger. She scrolled through Guthrie’s priors but did not see any connection to Nashville.

“Do you see something familiar about her?” Ramsey asked.

“Not really.” She turned off the screen and tucked the phone away. “Henri, anything else you can tell us about the car?”

“No evidence of decomposition fluids,” Henri said. “I checked after the discovery of the jar and fingers. I did find a small bag of pot. No firearms.”

Melina glanced at the time on her phone. “I have time to swing by the hospital and check on Elena and show her the picture of Bonnie to confirm it’s BB.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Ramsey asked. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”

“Sure. Suit yourself.” She thought about the pink-tipped cigarette butts in her pocket. “I need to make a quick stop at Matt’s office before we go.”

It took a couple of tries, but Ramsey was able to convince Shepard to let him drive both of them to the hospital. He was certainly interested in what Elena had to say, but his focus was on Shepard. She had stared at Bonnie Guthrie’s picture as if she had seen a ghost. Her eyes had widened and the color had faded from her cheeks. However, when he had asked, the agent had quickly cloaked whatever had been going on in her head.

Perhaps Guthrie reminded her of her foster days. Maybe she had arrested someone like that linked to a horrific crime. Whatever the reason, Bonnie Guthrie had made an impression on Melina Shepard.

He swung into a convenience store and gassed up his vehicle. “Can I get you anything?”

She reached for her wallet. “I’d love a soda.”

“Keep your money.”

He jogged inside to pay for the gas and grab her soda and a few PowerBars to tide him over between meals. While Ramsey was at the checkout, armed also with wintergreen gum and a bag of nuts, his eye caught the display that read A BAZILLION BUBBLES. ONE PUFF AWAY. He questioned the statement’s truth but still chose a pink container decorated with white and blue flowers. Ignoring the clerk’s raised brow, he placed the bubble mixture into the pile and paid for the lot.

Back in the car, he handed her the soda as he tossed his paper bag in the back seat.

“Thanks.”

He started the engine and switched on the radio. A country music song played softly as she twisted off the top of the soda and took a long drink. She dropped her gaze to her phone and retreated into her own thoughts, as if entering a private, windowless chamber. He could almost hear the door closing behind her.

Normally, silence suited him just fine. In high-stakes cases, he took moments like this to examine and reexamine the fractured pieces of the case’s puzzle.

“I’m trying to get used to the country music. It’s not my regular fare,” he said.

She looked up from her phone, blinked as if shifting mental gears. “I’m betting classical. Or whatever kind of music people raised with old money listen to.”

Old money sounded a little tainted when she said it. “Why do you say old money?”

“Your cuff links and watch look vintage, and you don’t strike me as the type of guy who haunts antique stores. Your precise use of the King’s English is another giveaway. And the cut of your suit. It’s handmade, isn’t it?”

The sharp assessment hit home. “And all that says old money? Newly rich can adopt all those traits.”

“You don’t seem to acknowledge any of it. New money cares; old money grows up with the good stuff and treats it like a second skin.”

“What else do you notice?”

“You have a house on the water. Potomac River is close to Northern Virginia, but so is Chesapeake Bay. Your skin is tanned, and your hands are weather beaten. I’m guessing they’ve been exposed to a lot of sun. Crew or sailing.”

A smile tugged the edges of his lips. “I sail.”

“And you have a dog,” she said. “Golden retriever? Just a couple of hairs on your pants, which I bet you don’t bother to brush off because you like remembering him. My father’s dog, Axel, can do no wrong.”

“You should be a profiler,” Ramsey said.

She closed her phone. “Don’t all cops have to be to some extent? We have to identify genuine versus deceptive behavior almost every day.”

“True.” He slowed as he approached the hospital. “You said your mother cooks Sunday dinner?” he asked.

“Mom expects my presence unless I’m in a shoot-out or tracking a missing person. Arterial spray is also acceptable.”

He pulled into the hospital parking lot, slid into a spot, and shut off the engine. “Nothing wrong with a hot meal.”

She laughed. “You haven’t tasted my mom’s cooking. Heart of gold but hide the can opener and dinner is going to be late.”

“Your dad cook?” he asked.

“Yeah. He’s pretty good at it. He took a fall recently and is recovering, so she’s back in the galley. And if that’s not an incentive to get well, I don’t know what is. What’s your deal—now that we are making small talk?”

“You summed me up pretty well. Harvard undergraduate, Yale Law.”

“Blood’s bluer than I thought. Who takes care of the dog?”

“The dog lives with my mother on the Chesapeake Bay. I visited this past Sunday, and he and I went sailing.”

“His name?”

“Romo.”