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card under the front door when no one answered his knock. Caitlyn had the distinct impression he wouldn’t give up.
    Especially not if Reid was on target and there was someone out there looking to repeat her brother’s crimes.
     
    “So let me get this straight. You went all the way out to see Cahill’s sister, just because of the damn charm?” Mitch drained his whiskey and signaled the bartender to pour him another.
    “I had a hunch.”
    Mitch let out a sardonic laugh. “Makes sense. Cahill likes horses. The vic likes horses. They have to know each other, right?”
    Reid took a sip from his beer bottle. He’d met Mitch at the Lucky Irishman, a pub near the VCU offices in Judiciary Square that was a popular hangout for law enforcement. The place was dark, noisy and tonight filled to overflowing.
    “What if I told you a horse on her property was mutilated?”
    The information gave Mitch pause. He took a sip from his newly filled glass, then shrugged. “I doubt it’s related. There are freaks running around everywhere these days. The District doesn’t have a monopoly on them. Did she call the local police?”
    “They think it was a bunch of teenagers turned Satan worshippers.”
    “They might be right.”
    “Still, I’d like to run a criminal history check on her employees, both for the farm and stables. I can get the names and socials from her.”
    Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got three weeks left on your leave, remember? Why don’t youtake a vacation? If I were you, I’d be soaking up the sun on a beach somewhere, preferably one of those nude ones in Miami.”
    “Just run the CHC for me.”
    “Whatever you want, partner.” Mitch gave the once-over to an attractive redhead who had seated herself at the opposite end of the bar. Then he offered, “But if you ask me, I think you’re just looking for an excuse to sniff around Caitlyn Cahill.”
    Reid didn’t respond, instead nursed his beer. He had taken the opportunity to drive all the way out to the Rambling Rose stables, instead of just contacting her by phone. He’d wanted to see her, he admitted to himself.
    “I’m assuming as long as you went out there, you showed her the vic’s photo?”
    Reid nodded. “She didn’t recognize her.”
    “I’m shocked.”
    “Any word from Tiffany’s?”
    “The charm was discontinued two years ago. We should have a registry list, including purchases made in the D.C. area, by tomorrow,” Mitch said. “The horseshoe is platinum and the diamond is a quarter-carat, VS1 quality, which, judging by the way the guy said it, is a big freaking deal.”
    Reid considered that the pricey jewelry also made it likely the victim was in a similar socioeconomic status as Joshua Cahill’s preferred targets. “Do we know how many were sold?”
    “Less than a thousand nationally—no idea how manylocally at this point. Hey, another round,” Mitch called to the bartender as he passed by. “And white wine for the redhead at the end of the bar.” He glanced at Reid. “You want another brewski?”
    “No, thanks.” He held up his bottle, indicating it was still half-full.
    “Lightweight.”
    Reid had never been much of a drinker—and certainly not able to keep up with Mitch, who still went at it like a frat boy. They’d been partnered since shortly after Reid joined the FBI following graduate school at the age of twenty-five. Nine years later, he acknowledged that Mitch hadn’t changed much…except for the fact that he’d packed on twenty pounds, gotten more cynical and gone through a recent, ugly divorce—his second. The woman accepted the wine the bartender took over to her. Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she smiled coolly at Mitch, who gave her a little salute with his whiskey glass.
    “Probably a real ice queen, but worth a shot, right?” His mouth quirked up. “Speaking of ice queen, how is Ms. Cahill?”
    “She’s fine…considering,” Reid answered, ignoring his barb. “She’s