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I don't know this street. Washington is two cities. One, the city of grand monuments and museums, broad boulevards, and majestic government buildings. The other, the city of crime and fear. The dome of the United States Capitol building gleams in the morning sunlight over the rooftops just a few blocks away from where I'm standing. We're in one of the poorer, more dangerous, and desperate parts of Washington. It's often the site of drug dealing, gang warfare, and shootings. This is not a part of town I visit unless I'm on official police business. Then it's always bad news.

This burning car is not gang warfare, though. I'm sure of that. This is something worse.

I call my partner, Tyrone Clifford, and ask him to check Robbery to see if a black two-door Ford Explorer has been reported stolen or missing. Then I tell him to come to the crime scene. I'm a little reluctant to bring Tyrone into the investigation, but it's a mess and I'm going to need help. And, despite everything, Tyrone is very good at police work.

The fire captain and I stand silently and watch while the firefighters cover the Explorer with more white foam, making the wreck look like a gigantic cream pastry.

"Did you ever see anything like this?"

She shakes her head. "Never. And I hope never to see anything like it again. That's a single car in flames, and that's not supposed to happen. The interior's on fire—not just the exterior. That couldn't be unless somebody drenched the victim with gas and then ignited it. And the victim..." She's having a hard time speaking.

I know how she feels. I've seen a lot of violent deaths in my time as a homicide detective, but it's usually death by gun or knife or baseball bat. Burning a man to death is a new one for me.

"Did you get a look at the victim's face at all?" I ask. "White? Black? Young? Old?"

"What face?" Collins demands. "By the time we got here, there was no face left. It had melted away."

"Are you Detective Marko Zorn?" a voice from immediately behind me asks in a deep, rumbling baritone.

A question like that might be a prelude to asking where the nearest grocery store is located. Or it might be a prelude to a man drawing a six-inch knife and driving it into my chest. In this part of Washington, all bets are off.

Someone once told me that when you're face-to-face with a possible assailant, just look into their eyes and you can tell whether he means to kill you. I've never found that to be helpful advice. People who say things like that have never been in a knife fight.

The baritone voice asking me the question belongs to a large Black man who must be six three and weigh in at around two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. He wears a brown felt porkpie hat. His arms are covered by old razor scars. Next to his right eye is a tattoo with five silver dots: four making a square pattern, the fifth inside the square. His neck and his throat are covered with other tattoos, some of which I recognize as gang and prison tags. The man is about fifty and looks like someone who was once a serious brawler. His tone of voice is courteous, though, and soft-spoken. He doesn't look like he intends to kill me. Can you really tell by looking into a man's eyes? I'll take my chances.

"Sure. I'm Marko Zorn. What can I do for you?"

"Sister Grace wants to talk to you."

Now that comes as a shock. I know I'm in that part of Washington that belongs to Sister Grace, and I wonder for a moment if she had anything to do with the car burning behind me. I dismiss the idea. It's not her style.

"I'm involved in an investigation just now." I point toward the heap that was once a car and is now a Viking funeral. "Can Sister Grace wait until tomorrow?"

"Sorry. Gotta be now. This is a serious emergency. It can't wait. She impatient, know what I mean?"

The big man shoots me a cheerful, ingratiating smile. It's the smile of a man who shares a silent bond with me. We both know how Sister Grace is.

"She says it'll take only a few minutes to tell you what you gotta do. Unless you try to argue with her, which I don' recommend at all."

"How did you know I was in the neighborhood?" I ask.

"Sister Grace knows ever'thing that happens in her territory."

"What's your name?"

"My name is Stryker."

"Good to meet you, Stryker. Take me to Sister Grace."