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Rufus was running for the house phone.   Within seconds, he had David Schultz on the phone.
    “Get down here,” he cried.   “Isabella has fainted.”
    John hung up the phone as Rufus made his way back around the desk.
    “David is on his way,” Rufus said.
    “He can’t help,” John said, and covered his face in his hands.
    “What are you talking about?” Rufus muttered, as he dropped to Isabella’s side again.   “She’s just fainted.   She’s going to be okay.   Isn’t she?”
    “It isn’t Isabella.   It’s Frank.”
    Rufus’s eyes widened, rearranging the pond of wrinkles that age had settled on his face.
    “What about Frank?”
    “He’s dead. Murdered.”
    Rufus blanched and sat down hard on the floor beside Isabella.   Unconsciously, he grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly in his own.
    “Dear Lord,” Rufus mumbled.   “Do you think—“
    “Don’t say it,” John muttered.   “Don’t even think it.”
    “What are we going to do?”
    “Go get him and bring him home to bury.”
    “But—“
    Isabella moaned.
    “Hush,” John said sternly.
    Rufus swallowed what he’d been about to say.   Seconds later, David and Jasper came flying down the stairs, their speed belying their ages.
    “What happened?” David asked, as he set his medical bag at Isabella’s side and pulled out a stethoscope.
    “You won’t need that,” John said.   “She fainted.   Just pop some smelling salts and get her to her room.   We’ve got bigger trouble.”
    David rocked back on his heels.
    “What?”
    “Frank’s dead. Murdered.”
    David blanched.
    “My God…where did it happen?”
    “Brighton Beach.”
    David frowned.   I’ve heard of it, but I can’t place the—“
    “It’s part of Brooklyn, I think.   Due to the large population of Russian immigrants, some call it Little Russian.”
    Jasper Arnold’s gasp was the only vocal sign of the four men’s shock.   Then Isabella began struggling to get up.
    “What happened?   Why did I—“
    Suddenly she remembered, and her face crumpled as she was helped to her feet.
    “Uncle Frank is dead,” she said, and began to sob.
    The four aging men encircled her.
    “We know,” the said.   “Come with us, darling.   You need to lie down.”
    “The desk,” she mumbled.
    “I’ll call Delia from the office.   She can take care of it for the rest of the day.”
    “What are we going to do?” Isabella asked, then covered her face in her hands.
    The men looked at each other silently, but it was David who answered her.
    “We’re going to get him and bring him home.   That’s what we’re going to do.”
     
    The sun was setting as Jack Dolan came out of his house and headed toward the deck surrounding his hot tub.   Except for a bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist, he was completely nude.   His house was on the outskirts of a Virginia suburb, only an hour or so’s drive from Washington, D.C.   The eight-foot-high privacy fence surrounding his backyard provided coveted privacy.   Besides, his nearest neighbor was over a quarter of a mile away and traveled more than he did.
    Exhaustion was evident in his stride as he reached the tub of bubbling water.   Modesty was last on his list of social graces as he dropped the towel from around his waist and stepped down into the water.   A few steps farther, he sank down onto a built-in seat and leaned back with a sigh as the jets sent a rush of warm, bubbling water against his skin.
    He had two knife scars on his back, an old gunshot scar on his upper thigh, and ribs that were still healing from the last case he’d been on.   His personal life was nonexistent, and his career as a Federal agent had been ongoing since his graduation from Boston University.   He was thirty-eight years old and had nothing to show for it but a house he rarely slept in and some investments he might not live long enough to spend.
    The water roiled around his limbs, easing the aches from old wounds and