Four Blind Mice

was pronounced dead by the warden of Central Prison at 1:31 A.M.
    Sampson turned to me when it was over. “We just watched a murder,” he said. “Someone murdered Ellis Cooper, and they got away with it.”

Chapter 32
    I WAS EARLY to meet the flight coming into Gate 74 at Reagan National; and once I was at the airport, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was definitely nervous,
good
nervous, with anticipation. Jamilla Hughes was coming to visit.
    The airport was crowded at about four on a Friday afternoon. Lots of weary, edgy businesspeople sitting around ending their workweeks on the computer, or already off the clock at the bar, or reading magazines and popular novels that ranged from Jonathan Franzen to Nora Roberts to Stephen King. I sat down, then popped up again. Finally I walked close to the large, expansive windows and watched a big American jet slowly taxi to the gate.
Well, here we go. Am I ready? Is she?
    Jamilla was in the second wave of passengers getting off the plane. She had on jeans, a mauve top, a black leather car jacket that I remembered from our stakeouts together in New Orleans. The two of us had become fast friends on a bizarre homicide case that had started in her hometown of San Francisco, weaved its way through the South, including the Big Easy, then ended up on the West Coast again.
    We had been talking about seeing each other ever since, and now we were actually doing it. It was pretty courageous on both of our parts; I just hoped it wasn’t dumb. I didn’t think so, and I hoped Jam felt the same way.
    Jesus, I was twitching as she came walking up to me. She looked great, though. Nice, big smile. What was I so worried about?
    “Where are the thick white clouds that are supposed to be covering the city as my plane approached? God, I could see
everything
— the White House, Lincoln Memorial, the Potomac,” Jamilla said, grinning.
    I leaned in and gave her a kiss. “Not every city has mountains of fog like San Francisco. You need to travel more. Your flight okay?”
    “Sucked.” Jamilla grinned again. “I don’t like flying much these days, but I’m glad to be here. This is
good,
Alex. You’re almost as nervous as I am. We never had trouble talking on stakeouts. We’ll be fine. We’ll be just fine. Now calm down, so I can calm down. Deal?”
    She grabbed me in both arms, hugged me, then kissed me lightly, but nicely, on the lips. “That’s much better,” she said, and smacked her lips. “You taste good.”
    “You must like spearmint.”
    “No, I like you.”
    We were a whole lot more comfortable during the ride into Washington in my old Porsche. We talked about everything that had been happening since we’d last seen each other. At first, it was work stuff, but then we got into the whole terrorist mess, then how my family was, and hers, and as usual neither of us shut up once we got started — which I love.
    It was only as I pulled up to the house that things began to feel tense for me again. “You ready for this?” I asked before we got out of the car.
    Jamilla rolled her eyes. “Alex, I have four sisters and three brothers back in Oakland. Are you ready for
that?
”
    “Bring them on,” I said as I grabbed hold of her black leather duffel bag, which felt as if it held a bowling ball, and headed toward the house. I was holding my breath, but I was definitely glad that she was here. I hadn’t been this excited in a long time.
    “I missed you,” I said.
    “Yeah, me too,” said Jam.

Chapter 33
    OBVIOUSLY, NANA HAD been thinking about the appropriate welcoming dinner for a while. Jamilla offered to help, and of course Nana refused to let her so much as lift a little finger. So Jam trailed her into the kitchen anyway.
    The rest of us followed to see what would happen next. Two immovable forces. This was high drama.
    “Well, all right then, all right.” Nana complained some, but I could tell she was pleased by the company. It allowed her to show off her wares, put us all to work, and test Jamilla at her leisure. She even managed to hum a little of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” while she worked. And then so did Jamilla.
    “You okay with pork chops in apple gravy, squash casserole, overcreamed potatoes? And you’re not allergic to a little corn bread, are you? Or fresh peach cobbler and ice cream?” Nana asked several loaded questions at once.
    “Love the pork chops, potatoes, peach cobbler,” Jamilla said as she examined the food. “Neutral on