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microwave, thirty seconds.” Then he turned to Jamila and smiled. “What did you see on TV?”
    Zaina pulled plates from the cabinets and spaced them around the small Formica table. She put the settings for her daughter and her at one end so the whole length separated them from Chuchi’s replacement. He made her nervous. If he was getting a message to Fares, maybe she could find a way to tell her husband how she felt. She would need to be subtle, but Fares knew her well enough to read between the lines.
    Even though the bags contained only burgers and fries, she set out a full complement of flatware—knives, forks, spoons. She would re-heat his plate first, both being polite and getting him in the kitchen away from Jamila.
    She punched start and the plate of food began rotating in the microwave. She didn’t hear the finishing beep. It was drowned out by Jamila’s scream.
    Zaina ran to the living room. Her daughter lay face down on the sofa cushions, her hands clutching the back of her head.
    The man stood over her. He held a knife in one hand; in the other was a clump of Jamila’s hair.
    “Something to send your husband.” He jammed the severed tresses into his pocket. “Is my dinner ready?”

Chapter Nine
    At four-thirty, Rusty Mullins pulled into the parking deck half a block from the Barnes and Noble in the Clarendon section of Arlington. Paul Luguire’s apartment building was only a few blocks farther on North Garfield Street. He considered walking over there later on the off chance he might see Luguire’s daughter.
    Mullins took his time getting to the bookstore. What appeared to others as an amble stroll allowed him to scan the vicinity. A double-parked car or van would draw his attention. So would window shoppers who kept glancing over their shoulders. But nothing triggered the internal alarm bells he’d developed from over twenty years in the Secret Service.
    Satisfied nothing was amiss, he checked his watch. Twenty to five. He entered the store and went straight to the second floor. He stood in the game section near the railing where he could view the entrance below. For the next twenty minutes, he browsed the merchandise, moving from games to children’s literature to the adult genres, but always keeping one eye on the lower level. Shoppers came and went, most browsing like him, absorbed in the myriad of displays.
    At five, he dropped his pretense and focused his attention on patrons and staff near the checkout line. Two cashiers worked the counter, keeping the customers moving so that the wait was never more than a few minutes. No one else seemed to be watching.
    Mullins picked up a children’s picture book from the bargain table and headed for the registers. His grandson, Josh, would like the story, and the purchase might deceive someone who had been told to be on the lookout for a man standing in line without any merchandise.
    “Did you find everything you wanted?” the woman behind the counter asked.
    “Yes. And you should have a book here for me.” He handed her his credit card. “Under this name.”
    She examined the Visa card. “We do. I found it on the counter about an hour ago marked prepaid. Did you give one of our associates your card number over the phone?”
    “No.”
    She nodded. “Good, because we’re not supposed to ask for that information. Those sales are handled over the Internet.”
    “That’s what I did,” he lied.
    The cashier frowned. “Well, someone didn’t use the proper paperwork for the in-store pickup of an Internet order.”
    “Is that a problem?”
    The woman retrieved a thin paperback from the shelf behind her. “No, but there should be a receipt. Did you happen to print one from your computer?”
    “Sorry. I didn’t think to.”
    She scanned the barcode and studied the register’s screen. “The book’s not listed in our inventory. It must have been the only copy and was deleted when you paid for your order.” She handed him the book. “Are you