"Clever way to commit first degree murder," Detective Paul Costello said, as he sped through the rain-slicked streets of Washington, D.C.

"Look out!" His partner, Ariel Summers, shouted, extending both hands toward the dashboard to brace for an expected crash.

Paul jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right and barely missed striking a ragged, barefoot man pushing a cart filled with wet rags and trash across the street. Then, he swerved the Taurus around a street corner.

"The hit and run might've been an accident, and the guy panicked and left the scene. We don't know if it was intentional," Ariel said, folding her hands back in her lap. She wished she hadn't corrected him. Although he had twenty years seniority, and was good friends with the chief, it was she, not him, who was recently promoted. Their relationship was fine until then.

"That woman screamed to our dispatcher that the man aimed his car straight at them, ran them down, and killed her boyfriend," Paul said. "It won't be the first time someone used a car to commit murder."

Ariel nodded and looked out the rain-splattered windshield at the dismal mid-March dusk. Sirens wailed, and red strobe lights from police cruisers flashed, and cast eerie circling shadows off street signs and store windows.

Paul brought the car to a sudden stop on 12th and U Street Northwest, where a crowd gathered.

Ariel unbuckled her seatbelt, and jumped out of the car. She held up her badge as she pushed her way through spectators. Lights from an ambulance and two squad cars blazed blues and reds. Yellow crime-scene tape stretched from the lamp post to the stop sign, on the other side of the street. Camera lights flashed, like lightning bugs in the approaching night. She noticed reporters she knew from past cases mingling in the crowd.

"What's with all the reporters?" she asked.

"Don't know. Somebody famous must be involved, "Paul said.

Ariel walked towards a man, who lay face up on the pavement with open unblinking eyes.

A weeping dark-haired young woman in a short red dress sat beside him. A paramedic was applying a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the woman's leg. Tears and black mascara formed a stream down the woman's face. She reached a trembling hand past the paramedic and patted the dead man on his shoulder.

Ariel drew in a sharp breath. Blood was on the man, on the woman beside him, and on the sidewalk. It smelled warm and coppery.

The injured woman had a red shoe on her left foot. Her right foot was bare and bloody.

Ariel gazed at the street. There were no signs that the driver of the car had applied brakes in an effort to slow down. She and Paul began to weave their way through the crowd, asking questions.

"Lord, I didn't see anything before I heard that girl scream," a heavyset woman, with a Lane Bryant shopping bag, said.

A man in a green jogging suit walked up to Ariel. "I saw it," he said. "I was walking on the other side of the street, and I saw the car that hit them."

"May I have your name and address, sir," she asked.

"James Peterson," the man said and gave his address.

"Can you describe what you saw, sir?" Ariel asked. "What color was the car that hit them?"

"Never ask a witness compound questions," Paul whispered, stepping between her and the man. "Why don't you go question some of those other people? I'll handle this witness."

He had taught her well about interviewing witnesses and investigating crime scenes, when she first came on the job. Things not found in the textbooks. She wished things could be like it was between them, before her promotion. But it was time to cut the umbilical cord.

The witness walked around Paul and faced her. "I saw a dark color BMW drive away just after the screams," he said.

"What color was the car?" She asked.

"Midnight blue. Almost black," he said, biting his lower lip. "Yeah, come to think of it, it was black."

"Did you see the license plate?" Paul asked.

"No."

"Did you see the person driving the car?" Paul asked as Ariel took out her spiral notebook.

"I think it was a man," he said."

"What did he look like?"

"Couldn't tell. The windows looked like it might have been tinted, and it was moving fast, and came so close when it passed me, I was afraid it was going to hit me, too. But ... I got the impression that the driver was a man."

While Paul continued questioning the man, Ariel wrote down his name, address, and phone number for follow-up questions. Then she left him talking to Paul, and walked over to the weeping woman. The paramedics were finishing up, but the woman's face and hands were marred with cuts and bruises.

"Where are you taking her?" Ariel asked.

"Washington University Hospital," the paramedic said.

Ariel held out her badge. "Ma'am, I'm Detective Ariel Summers, from the Metropolitan Police Department, Homicide Division. And I need to ask you a few questions, if you're up to talking right now."

"If you're trying to find out who murdered Brian, Detective, you don't have to ask any further," the woman said, bitterly. "Noelle killed him!"

"May I have your name, ma'am?"

"Mary. Mary Stevens."

Ariel softened her voice, "And may I have the name of the man beside you? I assume he's a close friend."

"Yes." Mary started crying again. "We ... we've been dating for over a year."

"I'm sorry," Ariel said. "May I have his name?"

"His name is Brian Williams. I'm surprised you don't know him," Paul said, walking over to her. "He's an offensive lineman for The Washington All Star Football Team."

"Ms. Stevens, I'm very sorry for your loss," Ariel said. "You said Noelle killed him. Who is Noelle, and why did you say she killed Mr. Williams?"

"She's Brian's ex-wife! I mean ... the divorce isn't official, yet, but it was going to be in two weeks, and Noelle couldn't accept that. She threatened us yesterday, and said we should both be killed, and that if we were living in biblical times she could stone us to death for committing adultery. I know she killed him." She buried her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry detective, but we have to get her to the hospital," one of the paramedics said.

"Yes, of course," she said, nodding to the paramedic, and stepping back from the ambulance.

She handed Mary a card. "I'll see you later, at the hospital," she said.

"You'll arrest her, won't you?" Mary asked, as she was eased onto the stretcher and put into the ambulance. "You won't let her get away with this, will you?"

"Our office will give this investigation our full attention," she said.

As the high-pitched screams of the ambulance faded in the distance, Ariel jotted a few notes on her notepad, and turned back to the crime scene.

The killer turned on the car radio as he slowed to thirty miles per hour and blended in with other drivers on the dark residential streets.

"The Washington All Star linebacker, Brian Williams, died this evening in a hit and run on Twelfth and U Street Northwest," the newscaster said. "His girlfriend, Mary Stevens, was taken to Washington University Hospital with serious injuries. But she is expected to survive."

"Not for long," the killer said. He made a sharp U-turn and headed in the direction of Washington University Hospital. He didn't leave witnesses. Although, it was dark, Mary Stevens had looked straight at him. And even if she couldn't see him, he wasn't...