peered down on two Metro D.C. patrol cars parked behind the old Porsche in our drive. It looked miserably cold outside. We were just entering the deepest hollow of D.C.’s winter. “Give me a break,” I mumbled into the chilly window blinds. “Go away.” Sampson was heading for the back door to our kitchen. It was twenty to five on the clock next to the bed. Time to go to work.
