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By Root 540 0

knew little of Parish’s reputation as a cop, just a few vague rumors that faded with time. When the senator made McTeague aware that Marshalk was looking for a driver who could also provide personal security, McTeague mentioned that Parish, who’d been doing part-time work in those capacities, might be available. He was, and he signed on. Six months into his employment, Marshalk called him into his office and announced that he was making him his vice president of security, with a salary to match the title. Parish’s grin had never been bigger, or more slanted, than on that day. As far as he was concerned, Rick Marshalk was the smartest, savviest, greatest guy in D.C. and beyond, and he pledged to him on that day that he would do anything Marshalk expected of him. “I’m yours, Rick,” he said as they shook hands on the deal. “Anything you need, just name it.”

This night, after leaving Rick Marshalk’s K Street offices, he took a cab to Foggy Bottom, where he instructed the driver to let him off two blocks from Emma Churchill’s home. He stood in the shadows of a boutique hotel until his cell phone rang.

“She just left,” he heard Marshalk say.

He walked the two blocks to the address on Emma’s card, stood in front of the house, and took in his surroundings. It was a quiet street. He saw no one. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he took quick steps down the driveway, passing a Subaru Tribeca parked off to one side. He proceeded to a door at the rear of the house and peered through one of its windows into a small kitchen illuminated by lights beneath a microwave installed over the stove. The parked Subaru concerned him. Did it belong to this guy Rotondi? Was he inside?

He tried the door. Locked. He removed a set of jigs on a metal ring from his pocket. He chose one and used it. The door unlocked easily. He slowly pushed it open and focused his hearing. No sound. He quietly closed the door behind him and was about to move to another room when Homer appeared in the doorway.

“Well, what do we have here?” Parish muttered as he pulled his semi-automatic from its shoulder holster.

Homer barked twice.

“Calm down,” Parish said. “You want to go out, huh? Is that what you want?”

He took a few steps back and opened the door. “Come on, baby, go on out for a walk. Nice night out there.”

Homer limped toward the door. Parish stepped aside. The dog looked up at him, barked once more, and went outside. Parish quickly shut the door and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected to be confronted by a dog. He would have hated to shoot the animal. He liked dogs.

He found the room off the kitchen to be empty. He explored other rooms. The house was his alone. All he had to do now was wait.

• • •

Emma turned down the radio’s volume as she turned onto her street. She noticed as she pulled into the driveway that no lights other than what she’d left on glowed through the windows. Rotondi wasn’t there yet.

She parked next to his car, turned off the ignition, and went to the back door. She inserted her key but saw that the door was already unlocked. She shook her head at her failure to lock up before leaving, and entered the kitchen. It didn’t surprise her that Homer didn’t greet her. His hearing had been failing; it took louder noises and voices to rouse him these days.

She tossed her handbag on the counter and flipped on the overhead lights. Leaving her shoes in the kitchen, she went to the living room and turned on lights there, then headed upstairs to change into pajamas and a robe.

As she stepped into the bedroom, she paused. She hadn’t seen Homer downstairs and wondered where he’d elected to sleep that night. She was about to retrace her steps down to the living room when a strong hand from behind clamped over her mouth. The sound she emitted was a combination of fright and pain. Parish’s fingers dug into the flesh around her mouth as he used his other hand to grasp her left arm and yank it behind her.

She struggled, but he was stronger. He brought her down to the floor on her stomach, his knee rammed into her lower back. “You gonna