Detective Cross

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Bree Stone was thirty minutes into her morning exercise and breathing hard as she ran east along a path by the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC. It was a gorgeous spring day in late March, warm with a fragrant breeze.

The Japanese cherry trees that lined the path were in full bloom, attracting early tourists. Bree had to dodge a few of them, but it was so pretty a setting and day that she didn’t mind.

She was in her late thirties, but her legs felt stronger than they had when she was just out of college. So did her breathing, and that pleased her. The daily exercise was working.

Leaving the Tidal Basin, Bree cut past the statue of John Paul Jones and jogged in place, waiting to cross 17th Street SE beside a DC bus discharging and loading passengers. When the bus sighed and rolled away, Bree looped around the pedestrians to cross the street, toward the National Sylvan Theater and another grove of blooming cherry trees. The cherry blossoms only peaked once a year and she intended to enjoy them as much as possible. She’d just passed a knot of Japanese tourists when her cell phone rang.

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