The Chace family lived in a residential area in Georgetown. She’d attended Georgetown University, always staying close to family although she’d traveled a lot for her job at the Bureau. There was no place like home. At six feet four inches, Wallace Chace was a big man who had just turned sixty. He’d been a Washington, D.C. policeman for thirty-seven of those years, twenty-four of them spent in a patrol car, nine as a shift commander and the last four in Internal Affairs. After retiring two years ago, he continued working part-time in a civilian capacity with Internal Affairs, but his wife often suspected that it was just Wallace’s excuse for riding around in a patrol car from time to time. “You gonna cut that onion or memorize it?” her father asked. His voice was gruff, but there was a twinkle in his hazel eyes. Christie looked down at the onion on the cutting board in front of her. She even had a knife in her hand. “I got the bratwurst coming off the grill in ten minutes.” Wallace took a serving tray of deviled eggs and a large bowl of Caesar salad from the refrigerator.
