I, Alex Cross

Chapter 47

I GOT HOME early Sunday morning, somewhere between the newspaper delivery trucks and the overzealous joggers heading to the park.

Whoa! What was this?

I found Nana in the sunporch, fast asleep in one of the wicker chairs. Other than her ancient pink terry slippers, she was already dressed for church in a gray flannel skirt and white sweater set. This would be Nana's first service since the hospital visit, and the whole family was going.

I put a hand on her shoulder, and she woke with a shrug. All it took was one quick look at my face. "Bad night?" she asked.

I flopped down on the love seat across from her. "Am I that obvious all the time?"

"Only to the initiated. All right, tell me what happened. Talk to me."

If this were any other case, I would have pleaded exhaustion, but Nana deserved to know about it. Still, I kept the details down to a PG rating; there was no need to overemphasize the dark side of Caroline's life. Nana knew, I was sure. She always seemed to, somehow.

By the time I got to the part about the geeky lawyer with the "motion to quash," I started getting worked up all over again. I'd just wasted a whole night, and I'd run out on Ali and Jannie to do it.

"I think Jannie has that pouting, cold-shoulder thing down pat, though," I said. "How were they after I left?"

"Oh, you know. They'll survive," she said, but then added, "Assuming that's all you need them to do."

"It was like a pat on the head and a smack on the cheek at the same time. Pure Nana Mama.

"So that was your twin sister waving me out the door last night? Telling me it was all good. See, I could have sworn it was you."

"Now, don't get defensive on me, Alex." She sat up a little straighter and cricked her neck, massaging it on one side. "I'm just saying, the children don't always care why you're gone, Alex. They just know that you are. Especially little Damon."

"You mean Ali."

"That's what I said, isn't it? The boy's only six, after all."

I leaned in for a better look at her. "How much sleep did you get last night?"

She made her pssh sound. "Old people don't need sleep. It's one of the secret advantages. Reason I can still whip you in a debate. Now, help me up and I'll start some coffee. You look like you could use it."

I had a hand on her elbow and she was halfway up, when she stopped suddenly and sagged a little.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing. I just, um…"

At first she looked confused. Then all at once, her face creased with pain and she doubled over in my arms. Before I could even get her back down again, she'd passed out.

Oh God, no.

Her small body was like nothing to hold in my arms. I laid her gently on the love seat and felt for a pulse at her neck. There was none.

"Nana? Can you hear me? Nana?"

My heart was flying now. The doctors at St. Anthony's had told me the signs to look for – no movement, no breath, and she just lay there, horribly still.

Nana was in cardiac arrest.

Chapter 48

IT WAS ANOTHER nightmare – the EMTs in the house, the blur of the ambulance ride, questions at the emergency room. Then the terrible waiting.

I stayed with Nana all day and all night at St. Anthony's. She'd survived the heart attack, which was about as much as anyone would say for now.

They had her on a ventilator to help her breathe, with a tube taped over her mouth. There was a clip on her finger to measure her oxygen level, and an IV to keep the medications coming. More wires ran from Nana's chest to a heart monitor by the bed, its pulsing lines like some kind of electronic vigil. I hated that screen and relied on it at the same time.

Friends and relatives came and went all day and into the evening. Aunt Tia was there with some of my cousins, and then Sampson and Billie. Bree brought the kids, but they weren't allowed in, which was just as well. They'd seen more than enough at home when the ambulance had come and taken Nana away again.

And then there were the "necessary" conversations. Different staff members wanted to talk to me about the DNR order in her file, about options regarding hospice, about religious affiliation, all just in case. Just in case what – Nana never woke up?

No one tried to chase me out after visiting hours, as if they could, but I appreciated the consideration. I sat with my forearms on the edge of the bed, sometimes to rest my head, other times to pray for Nana.

Then, sometime in the middle of the night, she finally stirred. Her hand moved under the blanket, and it was like all those prayers of ours were answered in that one small motion.

And then another tiny motion – and her eyes slowly opened.

The nurses had said that I should stay calm and speak quietly if that happened. For the record, it was no easy feat.

I reached up and put a hand on her cheek until she seemed to know I was there.

"Nana, don't try to say anything right now. Don't try to argue either. There's a tube in your throat to help you breathe."

Her eyes started moving around, taking it all in, staring at my face.

"You collapsed at home. Remember?"

She nodded, but just barely. I think she smiled too, which felt huge.

"I'm going to ring for the nurse and see how soon we can get you off this machine," I said. "Okay?" I reached for the call button, but when I looked back, her eyes had closed again. I had to check the monitor just to reassure myself she was only sleeping.

All the yellow, blue, and green lines were doing their thing, just fine.

"Okay, tomorrow morning, then," I said, not because she could hear me but because I needed to say something.

I only hoped there would be a tomorrow morning.

Chapter 49

NANA WAS WIDE awake and off the ventilator by noon the following day. Her heart was enlarged and she was too weak to leave intensive care, but there was good reason to believe she'd be coming home again. I celebrated by sneaking the kids into the room for the quickest, quietest Cross family party ever.

The other hopeful news was on the work front. An FBI lawyer named Lynda Cole had established probable cause and gotten the Bureau back onto the property out in Virginia. By the time I reached Ned Mahoney on his cell, the FBI had a full Evidence Response Team on site.

Bree spelled me at the hospital – Aunt Tia would spell Bree later – and I drove out to Virginia in the afternoon to have another look around Blacksmith Farms.

Ned met me out front so he could walk me through with his creds. The primary area of interest was a small apartment out back. The access was an interior staircase from a three-bay parking garage underneath.

Inside, the place looked like a suite at the Hay-Adams. The furniture was all soft linens and upholstery, mostly in lighter tones. There was a decorative dropped ceiling over the dining area, and a highly polished walnut-manteld fireplace.

If you subtracted the techs in their tan cargos and blue ERT polo shirts, the place was pristine.

"It's the bedroom that's the puzzle," Ned said. I followed him in through a set of curtained French doors. "No carpet, no knickknacks, no bedding, nothing," he said, stating the obvious. Other than a bare bed, dresser, and two nightstands, it looked like someone had recently moved out.

"Prints and fibers came up with nothing. So we went to luminol."

That explained the portable UV lamps set up in the room. Mahoney turned off the ceiling light and closed the door. "Go ahead, guys."

Once they powered up, the whole room seemed to go radioactive. The walls, the floor, the furniture, all fluoresced bright blue. It was one of those occasions when my life actually did feel like an episode of CSI.

"Someone cleaned in here professionally," Mahoney said. "And I don't mean Merry Maids of Washington."

One of the limitations with luminol is that although it can bring out traces of blood, it also responds to some of the things people use to get rid of blood, like household bleach. That's what we were looking at. It was as if the room had been painted with Clorox.

This looked like a crime scene for sure. And maybe a murder scene.

Chapter 50

THE NEXT THING that happened, nobody saw coming. It was maybe half an hour later, and I was still on the case at Blacksmith Farms.

A rumble of conversation came from the apartment's living room, and Ned and I went out to see what was going on. Several techies were gathered around a bearded guy on a short ladder near the door. He had the plastic cover of a smoke detector in one hand, with the exposed unit on the ceiling above him. That's what everybody was staring at.

The tech reached up with a pencil and pointed at an innocuous plastic nub tucked into the circuitry. "I'm pretty sure it's a camera. Fairly sophisticated."

Talk about grinding the gears.

Immediately, Ned ordered a second sweep of both buildings. Everyone turned off their cell phones, and all the televisions and computers we could find were disconnected. That would keep them from interfering with the radio-frequency detectors.

Once the search got going, it was fast work. Ninety minutes later, most of the on-site personnel were gathered in the main house foyer for a briefing. I saw a few familiar faces, including the assistant director in charge, Luke Hamel, and also Elaine Kwan from the Behavior Analysis Unit, my old office.

I was surprised the case hadn't been graded major yet, just based on the firepower in the room.

The special agent in charge of ERT was Shoanna Spears. She was tall and big boned, with a heavy Boston accent and a tiny ivy tattoo that just peeked over the top of her white oxford collar. She stood on the grand staircase to address the group.

"Basically, there's nowhere in the house that isn't covered. We found cameras in every room, including the bathrooms and the apartments out back."

"How do we find out what all those cameras have been filming?" Hamel asked the question percolating in everyone's brains.

"Hard to say. These are wireless units; they can transmit to any base station within a thousand feet, maybe more than that. We did find a hard drive on the third floor with the right software, but no archived files. That means either that all the surveillance was done live or, more likely, that somebody took the files off site."

"In which case we'd be looking for what?" Mahoney spoke up from the back of the room. "Disks? A laptop? E-mails?"

Agent Spears nodded. "Keep going," she said. "There's nothing terribly sophisticated about those files. They can pretty much be stored anywhere."

You could feel the energy in the room dip. We were all ready for some good news. And then we got it.

"For what it's worth," Spears went on, "there seems to be only one set of prints on the hardware upstairs. We're running them through IAFIS now."

Chapter 51

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND any of this, Tony. Why can't you at least tell me where we're going? Is that too much to ask?"

The truth – and Nicholson had only come to realize it that afternoon – was that he didn't have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Not by his own hand, anyway. He'd always believed that if he had to, he could easily put a pillow over Charlotte 's face or slip something lethal into her morning coffee, but that wasn't going to happen, was it? And now it was too late to have her hit by someone else, which would have been a snap.

He threw a few last things into his duffel, while Charlotte harped at him from the far side of the bed. The Louis Vuitton bag he'd set out for her was still empty, and his patience was running out. He badly wanted to punch her in the face. But what good would that do?

"Darling." The word nearly caught in his throat. "Just trust me here. We have a plane to catch. I'll explain everything once we're away. Now, pick out a few things and let's go. Let's go, sweetheart." Before I get really angry and murder you with my bare hands.

"It's about those men from the other night, isn't it? I knew something wasn't right with them. Do you owe somebody money – is that it?"

"Goddamnit, Charlotte, are you listening at all? It's not safe here, dimmy. For either of us. The best we could hope for would be jail at this point. That's the best, do you understand? It only gets worse from there."

"Depending on who gets to us first was the rest of his thought.

"We? What do you mean, we? I haven't done anything to anyone."

Nicholson rushed around the bed and threw an armful of clothes from her closet into the bag, hangers and all.

Then the red leather jewelry box he'd bought her in Florence, forever ago – a lifetime ago, when he'd been young, in love, and most definitely dumb as a bag of bricks with a hard-on.

"We're leaving. Now."

She trailed after him, more afraid of being alone than anything else, which he was counting on. That got them as far as the front hall before Charlotte melted down completely. He heard something between a moan and a scream, and turned to see her half-crouched on the polished slate floor. Black lines of makeup ran down her cheeks with the tears; she always wore too much of the stuff, like some kind of tart, and he should know.

"I'm so scared, Tony. I'm shaking all over. Can't you see that? Can't you see anything besides your own needs? Why are you being like this?"

Nicholson opened his mouth to say something bland and conciliatory, but what came out instead was "You really are too stupid for words, do you know that?"

He dropped her bag and took her up roughly by the arm, didn't care if he yanked it from its socket. Charlotte pulled back, kicking and screaming, literally, as he started to drag her across the floor. All he had to do was get her to the car, and then she could pop an aneurism for all he fucking cared about the dumb, stubborn cow his wife had become.

But then the first slam came at the front door.

Something – not someone – had just smashed into it from the outside, hard enough to leave a long, forked crack down the middle. Nicholson looked out a window just quickly enough to realize what it was – a battering ram. And he knew then that it was probably too late to save even himself.

The second vicious and powerful swing came right away. It popped the lock set and dead bolt like children's toys, and the door exploded open.

Chapter 52

"RUN."

That was the only advice that Tony Nicholson had for his wife before he dropped her arm and sprinted toward the back door himself. All priorities were now relative. Survival was not, and it definitely could go to the fittest.

He got as far as the kitchen, where he came face-to-face with a short, solid-looking Hispanic man coming the other way. Now, who the hell was this?

There was a blur of motion, then an excruciating crack at the side of his knee. Nicholson vaguely registered the pipe wrench in the man's hand as he went down hard and stayed down.

At first there was only pain, a big red ball of it exploding up and down his leg.

Then came the handcuffs. They bit into his wrists before he knew they were there.

Handcuffs?

Next, the Hispanic intruder dragged him by the collar all the way back into the living room, where he dropped him midpoint on the rug.

Charlotte was sitting in one of the Barcelona chairs with a strip of silver tape plastered over her mouth.

A second man – were there really only two of them? – stood over her, watching Nicholson with faint interest, almost boredom, like he did this kind of thing every day.

They weren't FBI or police; that much seemed clear. And they were nothing like the two goons from last week. Their clothes were dark, and they wore black balaclavas pulled up off their faces and latex gloves on their hands.

Not exactly cops, but close. Former cops? Special Forces?

The one who had attacked him was smash nosed, with dark eyes that seemed to be looking down at an unworthy specimen more than anything.

"The disk?" was all that he said.

"Disk?" Nicholson gutted out the word between clenched teeth. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you two?"

"Two – I like that number."

The man looked at his stainless-steel watch. "You have about two minutes."

"Two minutes or what?" Nicholson asked, but then he saw the answer to his question.

The taller one took out a clear plastic bag and pulled it down over Charlotte 's head. She struggled, but he had no trouble wrapping bands of the silver tape around her neck, sealing her head inside the plastic.

Nicholson could see Charlotte 's expression change as she realized exactly what was happening. He even felt a pinch of pity, maybe even lost love, something emotional and, well, human. For the first time in years, he felt a connection to Charlotte.

"You're insane! You can't do this!" he yelled at the man holding down his wife.

"You're the one doing this, Mr. Nicholson. You're in complete control of the situation, not us. This is all on you. For God's sake, make us stop."

"But I don't even understand what you want. Tell me what it is!"

He lunged for Charlotte, but the injured knee took him right back down, wedged embarrassingly between the couch and the coffee table.

"Please, tell me what you want! I don't understand!" Nicholson begged at the top of his lungs as convincingly as possible. It was the performance of a lifetime, and it had to be.

By the time he got himself onto the couch, Charlotte had gone still.

Her familiar blue eyes were wide open. Her head lolled against her shoulder like some marionette waiting to be picked up. It was grotesque, with the plastic bag still on, and easy to respond to.

"You bastards! You fucking bastards, you killed her! Now do you believe me? Is that what it takes?"

The two men were as cool as ever. They exchanged a glance. A couple of shrugs.

"We should go," the white guy said. The other nodded, and for a second Nicholson thought he'd pulled it off, that maybe "we" meant only the two of them. It didn't. One of them picked up Charlotte and the other dragged Nicholson.

As he was forced to hobble on his good leg toward the door – and God knew where after that – Nicholson had the strangest thought he'd had all day. He wished he had been nicer to Charlotte.

Chapter 53

NED MAHONEY AND I were in my car, headed east on I-66 toward Alexandria, when the call came in that we were too late. Virginia State Police were reporting that they'd found Nicholson's house empty. There were signs of a break-in and a struggle, two packed suitcases left behind, both of the Nicholsons' cars still in the garage.

An APB was in effect, but without a specific vehicle to look for, it didn't carry much hope of an apprehension.

The plan was still to convene at the Nicholson house. ADIC Hamel was calling in another Evidence Response Team right away. And Mahoney phoned someone at the Hoover Building to do some fast digging on Nicholson.

He also had one of the Bureau-issue Toughbooks in the car, which let him double up on research. He started feeding me information rapid-fire, the way Ned always does when he's keyed up.

"Well, our boy's never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military – no big surprises. He doesn't have any known aliases either. And he doesn't cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson."

"I don't think he's our killer," I said.

Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. "Because?"

"There're too many loose ends here," I explained. "Nicholson's obviously one of them, but that's all he is, Ned. It's like that old story about the five blind men and all the elephant parts."

"Which makes Nicholson what – the asshole?"

I had to laugh. Mahoney is never without a quick response, and he's at his best when the pressure's on.

"I think someone came after the same thing we're looking for, only they got to him first. Which just means they have more puzzle pieces to work with than we do."

"Or" – Mahoney held up a finger – "he staged his own disappearance. It wouldn't be hard – drop a few suitcases, bust up some furniture, and he's halfway over the Atlantic with his little snuff film collection while we're still dusting the house for prints."

We batted possibilities around some more, until another call came in. Whatever it was got Mahoney excited – again. He punched an address into his laptop.

A few seconds later, we were following the GPS onto the Beltway toward Alexandria – but not to Nicholson's house.

"Avalon Apartments," Mahoney said. "Nicholson came up on a tenant database. Guess he missed a payment or something."

"A rental?" I said. "In the same town where he already lives?"

Mahoney nodded. "Lives with his wife," he said, "who I'm betting is at least fifteen years older than whoever we find behind door number two. What do you say – twenty bucks?"

"No bet."

Chapter 54

TONY NICHOLSON LEANED forward from the backseat, as far as the cuffs would allow. He could see that the lights on the second floor were on.

"We don't need to be here," he said. "She doesn't know anything. I promise you."

The one who had ruined Nicholson's leg opened the passenger door. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."

He got out and went to the front door. Then he used one of Nicholson's keys to let himself in.

Nicholson was thinking that he still might be able to save himself, and maybe Mara. He had a surreal image of her beautiful face trapped inside a plastic bag.

The driver was tall and blond – like him – with pale eyes and a square forehead. He looked more intelligent than the spic. Maybe he was more reasonable too.

"Listen," Nicholson said in a whisper. "I do know what you're looking for. I can help you get it, but not without some kind of exit strategy for me."

The man sat straight and still, staring out the windshield as if Nicholson hadn't spoken.

"I'm willing to make a deal, is what I'm saying."

Still nothing from the front seat.

"For the disk. Of Zeus. Do you hear me? I'll tell you where it is."

"Yeah," the blond guy finally said. "You will."

"So… why won't you make a deal? Now? Here? Why the hell not?"

The driver's fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. "Because we're going to kill you anyway. You and the girlfriend."

Nicholson felt a hollow beating in his chest, and he was finally feeling as if nothing mattered anymore. He laughed, a little desperately.

"Jesus, friend, I don't mean to tell you your job, but then why the hell would I -"

All at once, the driver turned, reached down, and squeezed the soft parts of Nicholson's mangled knee.

The pain was instant and stunning. His jaw dropped open even as his throat closed up. Nicholson couldn't breathe, much less scream, and in the strange silence, his tormentor's low voice was easy to hear.

"Because at some point, friend, you're going to stop wanting to live and start wanting to die. Understand? And if you haven't told us what we want to know by then – believe me, you will."

Chapter 55

THE CAR DOOR opened and Mara slid in, thin hips first, with the other man's hand cupping her blond head of hair. Nicholson saw him tuck a.45 into his waistband before he slammed shut the car door behind her.

His girlfriend looked understandably freaked out. Hell, she was only twenty-three years old. Her arms came together in front, with a sweater draped over them to hide the cuffs. He'd given her that sweater as a present. Cashmere. From the Polo store in Alexandria. Happier days.

"You okay?"

"Jesus, Tony, what's going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?"

"Just don't say anything," Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara's being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.

She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn't exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.

"What do they want?" she pressed. "Where are they taking us? Tony, tell me."

"That's a bloody good question." Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. "Where the fuck do you think you're taking us?"

That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the.45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing – it meant he was still alive, didn't it?

"Whatever this is, I don't work for him anymore," Mara was already telling the two men in front. "You have to believe me. I'll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper."

"Shut up, Mara," Nicholson said. "Won't do any good anyway."

"He's been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and -"

He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. "Mara, I'm warning you."

"Or what, Tony? It's a little late for warnings, isn't it? I shouldn't even be here."

Her dark brown eyes flashed fear and anger, the same things he was feeling, so it was hard to completely blame her. "I'm talking about big names," she rattled on. "Rich guys. Politicians, Wall Street, lawyers, that kind of thing -"

"Yeah, yeah." The driver cut her off. "Tell us something we don't already know. Otherwise, like the man said – shut up, Mara."

Chapter 56

MAHONEY CALLED IN our new position as we followed the GPS off the Beltway and onto Eisenhower Avenue. It was getting dark, but the roads were still crowded with commuters. I wondered vaguely when nine-to-five had become an anachronism.

A mile and a half up Eisenhower, we came to a row of identical four-story townhouses fronting the street.

A break in the road marked the entrance with a sign welcoming visitors to Avalon at Cameron Court.

The GPS led us through the mini-maze of the compound inside. It was one of those upscale developments, "communities," with their own everything. Rents here were as high as thirty-five hundred a month, according to Mahoney and his laptop.

"You know, my aunt lives in a place like this, down in Vero Beach, Florida. They have a two-pet maximum, but she's got four identical little dogs. Just walks them two at a time."

I sort of listened, until we came onto Nicholson's block. "Hey, Ned. See that?" A dark blue sedan was just pulling out of a driveway about fifty yards ahead. "Is that Nicholson's building?"

Mahoney sat up and closed the laptop. "Could be. Let's find out."

The other car started up the block, heading right toward us. It had DC plates. Two men in front, two passengers in back who were harder to see.

As we passed, I looked in, and for just a second I locked eyes with Tony Nicholson.

Chapter 57

AS SOON AS my siren came on, the dark blue sedan took off up the block and then spun around the corner. I had no idea who these guys were – mob, guns for hire, or what – but the way they tore out of there told me Nicholson and his girlfriend were in some serious trouble.

Ned was already on the phone. "This is Mahoney. I have command of the target, Nicholson. We're in pursuit of a blue, Pontiac G6, DC plates."

We came around another corner, and I saw them stopped at the compound's exit.

"One for the good guys!" Ned said, and pumped a fist. There was a solid stream of traffic on Eisenhower blocking them in, and for maybe a second, I thought we might get through this cleanly.

Then the Pontiac 's doors opened on both sides and two men came out – firing!

A bullet pierced my windshield with a dull popping sound before Ned or I could get out. I threw open my door and rolled onto the street. Mahoney also got out the driver's side and stayed low.

From where I was, in a gully, I could only see the sedan's driver. He looked military to me, tall, with a blond buzz cut – and still firing. I didn't shoot back, didn't dare.

The problem was the traffic stopped behind him. There wasn't a safe shot I could take. He seemed to figure that out, and broke for the nearest building.

As he passed the large Avalon sign fronting the complex, I fired off a fast, controlled double tap. Two shells kicked over my shoulder. The blond man went down with the second one.

But we weren't out of this yet, not by a long shot. Mahoney was up and firing. I could see the other man now, down in the street. He had a wet hole in the leg of his pants, but he got up again.

"Drop your weapon!" Mahoney shouted, as the man began to hobble away.

I came around to cover from a second angle, just as the guy raised a.45 at Mahoney.

Both our shots got off before his. He spasmed twice when they hit, and still managed to pull the trigger one more time. His shot nearly clipped Ned, who dropped and fired back. The last bullet caught the guy in the shoulder.

The shooter was alive when we got to him, wide-eyed and tremoring, his finger still on the trigger. Ned stepped on his wrist and pulled the.45 out of his hand.

"Hang in there," I told him. "Ambulance is on its way."

He was in bad shape, though. A wound in his stomach was pumping blood, too much and too fast. While Mahoney ran to Nicholson and the woman, I pulled off my jacket and pressed it to the wound.

"Who do you work for?" I asked.

I wasn't sure if he could hear me. He didn't look scared, but his eyes were like saucers. When he tried to swallow, foamy blood came through his lips. My jacket was already soaked.

"Tell me!" I finally shouted at him. "Who sent you here?"

The gunman's breath hitched, and his grip went tight on my arm – just before everything went lax. He died without saying a word that might help us understand, well, anything about what was happening.

Chapter 58

OUR TWO DEAD soon became three, when Charlotte Nicholson, her face blue, the body still warm, turned up in the Pontiac 's trunk.

Tony Nicholson and his presumed girlfriend, Mara Kelly, were both mute except to say that they hadn't done anything wrong and they had no idea who the dead men were. That's as much as we got before the FBI took them into custody.

By now, the response team had swelled to three Bureau cars, Alexandria police, EMTs, and the local sheriff's department. As soon as I could, I called Bree to check in.

That's when I realized that my phone had been off for hours – ever since the sweep at the private club out in Culpeper. When I turned it on, there were three voice mails waiting – all from Bree.

Right away I got nervous.

I listened to the first message. "Hey, it's me. Listen, the doctors are concerned about Nana's kidney function. They say her fluid levels aren't what they should be. There's no prognosis yet, but you should give me a call. Love you."

I turned toward my car now and started walking, not at all sure I wanted to hear the second message.

"Alex, it's Bree. I tried the Bureau, but nobody seems to know where you are. I don't have Ned's cell. I'm not sure what else to do. Nana isn't good. I hope you get this soon."

I was running, but the third message nearly stopped me cold on the spot.

"Alex, where are you? I hate to leave this on your phone, but… Nana's gone into a coma. I'm going back in now, so you won't be able to reach me anymore. Get here as soon as you can."

Chapter 59

THE FUNCTION BEING held at One Observatory Circle tonight was relatively informal, a Maryland crab boil for several midlevel staffers and their families. That meant jackets with no ties – until the vice president went to shirtsleeves just before dinner and his male guests followed suit.

Agent Cormorant, however, kept his jacket on. It was specially tailored to conceal a.357 SIG Sauer pistol holstered under his right arm, and though the event was distinctly low-threat, it was not in Cormorant's professional DNA to take anything for granted, especially not these days.

Secret Service had been covering the sprawling Victorian residence since 1972. The Rockefellers had never moved in, but the Mondales, Bushes, Quayles, Gores, and Cheneys had all lived here before the Tillmans. Every corner of the place was well documented, literally. Cormorant knew the house better than his own two-bedroom condo on M.

So when he needed a private word with the vice president, it was second nature to access the library through a back sitting room, to avoid being seen coming or going by any of the guests.

Tillman poured himself a scotch rocks and waited by the mantel while Cormorant closed and latched doors at both ends of the room.

"What is it that can't wait, Dan?" Tillman asked.

"I should tell you right now, sir, that I'm about to step way out of line here," Cormorant said.

Tillman sipped his drink. "That's something new. The warning, I mean."

The two men were friends, as much as men in their positions could be. Someday they'd share fishing trips and holidays, but for now, it was Mr. Vice President and Agent Cormorant – protectee and protector.

"Sir, I think it's time you brought the president in on Zeus. Specifically the fact that someone connected to the White House or the Cabinet might be a killer."

Tillman's expression hardened instantly and he set his drink down. "The president knows that much. I took care of it. We still need facts. We need a name." Tillman had already been briefed about the FBI raid in Virginia, but not on the latest developments. Cormorant quickly brought him up to speed, including the cameras found at the sex club.

"No one's talking specifically about Zeus yet, but if any recordings happen to be found, it won't matter what he calls himself."

"When did this come out?" Tillman asked. He seemed visibly shaken now.

"Today. This afternoon."

"And how do you know about it already?"

Cormorant maintained eye contact with the VP, and also what he hoped was a discernibly respectful silence.

"Right," Tillman said. "Never mind. Go on, please. Sorry I interrupted you."

"It's actually the attorney general who might be able to do something about this. If there were any manageable pretense for sidelining the investigation or even slowing it down -"

Suddenly Tillman seemed angry, but it was always hard to tell with him.

"Hang on right there. You want the president to lean on the AG? Do you even know what you're suggesting? A Cabinet member could be involved."

"It's not about what I want, sir. This has always been about protecting President Vance and this administration."

A burst of laughter came from just beyond the foyer-side door. Cormorant didn't waver, except to lower his voice a notch.

"I'm not suggesting we try to bury this scandal. I just need a little space to see if we can find out who Zeus is. If I can do that, then the White House will be in a better position to control the information when it comes out – and it is going to come out, sir, one way or another, sooner or later."

"What does Reese have to say about this?" Tillman asked. "You ask him? Does he know about the cameras?"

"I briefed the chief of staff this afternoon, but nothing was said about bringing everything to the president. I wanted to speak with you first."

"Don't play me against him, Dan. And don't play me against President Vance. The president has my complete loyalty."

"I'm not trying to, sir -"

"No. All right. Here's what you're going to do." Tillman had a way of shifting from inquiry to decision without warning, and it had just happened. "Talk to Gabe about this, and speak your mind with him. If he wants to bring it back to me, we'll go from there. Otherwise, you and I never had this conversation."

The vice president was already halfway to the door when Cormorant's voice rose for the first time.

"Walter!" It was the kind of protocol breach that could send an agent down the ranks fast, under most circumstances, anyway. "I can find him. Zeus. Just give me the time to do it."

Tillman stopped, but he didn't turn around. "Talk to Gabe" was all he would say, and when he continued out of the room, Agent Cormorant had no choice but to follow.

The conversation was over, and the crab was getting cold in the other room.

Chapter 60

I RAN MY siren all the way across the Potomac and into the city until I was parked in the lot outside St. Anthony's Hospital. My mind hadn't stopped racing since I'd heard Bree's voice mails. How could this have happened? Just this morning, Nana had been sitting up; she'd been talking to us; she'd been getting better.

When I got off the elevator on six, the first familiar face I saw was Jannie's. She was parked on the edge of one of the molded plastic chairs just outside the ICU. When she saw me, she ran into my arms and held me tight.

"Nana's in a coma, Daddy. They don't know if she's going to wake up or not."

"Shhh. I know, I know. I'm here now." I felt her go from stiff to limp as the tears started. Jannie was so strong and so fragile at the same time. Just like Nana, I couldn't help thinking as I held her. "Have you seen her?" I asked.

She nodded against my chest. "Only for a minute or so. The nurse told me I had to wait out here."

"Come on," I said, taking her hand. "I think I need you for this."

We found Bree sitting next to Nana's bed, in the same chair I'd slept in the night before. She got up and put her arms around both of us.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered.

"What happened?" I whispered back. In case Nana could hear, I suppose.

"Her kidney function just spiraled, Alex. They have her on dialysis now, and she's back on the hydralazine, the beta blockers…"

I could barely hear Bree's words, or sort out their meaning. My legs were weak, my head spinning in fast little circles.

Nothing could have prepared me for how much worse Nana looked.

She was on the ventilator again, this time with a tracheotomy right into her throat. There was a feeding tube in her nose now, and the dialysis too. But the worst by far was Nana's face – all pinched and drawn down, like she was in pain. I had thought she would just look asleep, but it was much worse than that.

I squeezed in to sit by her. "It's Alex. I'm here now. It's Alex, old woman."

I felt as if I were on the opposite side of a thick piece of glass from Nana. I could talk to her and touch her and see her, but I couldn't actually reach her, and it was the most helpless sensation I'd ever known. I had this terrible sick feeling that I knew what was coming next.

I'm usually good in a crisis – it's what I do for a living – but I was barely holding it together. When Jannie came over to stand beside me, I didn't bother to try and hide the tears coming down my cheeks.

This wasn't just happening to Nana. It was happening to all of us.

And as we sat there watching Nana, a tear ran down her cheek.

"Nana," we all said at once. But she didn't speak back to us or even try to open her eyes.

There was just that single tear.

Chapter 61

WHEN I WASN'T sleeping that night, or getting out of the nurses' way every few hours while they checked their patient, I was talking to Nana. At first, I stuck to the soft stuff – how much we loved her, how much we were pulling for her, and even just what was going on in the room.

But eventually it sank in for me that all Nana ever wanted was the truth, whatever that happened to be. So I started to tell her about my day. Just like we had always talked, never thinking about the reality that our talks would have to end eventually.

"I had to kill someone today," I said.

It seemed like there should have been more to say about that, once I'd said it out loud, but I just sat there quietly. I guess this was where Nana was supposed to come in.

And then she kind of did – a memory, anyway, from an earlier time when we had a similar conversation.

Did he have a family, Alex?

Nana had asked me that before anything else. I was twenty-eight at the time. It was an armed robbery, at a little grocery store in Southeast. I wasn't even on duty when it happened, just on my way home. The man's name, I'll never forget, was Eddie Clemmons. It was the first time anyone had ever shot at me, and the first time I'd ever fired in self-defense.

And yes, I told Nana, he had a wife, though he didn't live with her. And two children.

I remember standing there in the front hall on Fifth Street with my coat still on. Nana had been carrying a basket of wash when I came in, and we ended up sitting down on the stairs, folding clothes and talking about the shooting. I thought it was strange at first, how she kept handing me things to fold. Then, after a while, I realized that at some point, my life would start to feel normal again.

You're going to be fine, she had said to me. Maybe not quite the same, but still, just fine. You're a police officer.

She was right, of course. Maybe that was why I needed so badly to have the same conversation again now. It was strange, but all I really wanted was for her to tell me it was going to be okay.

I picked up her hand and kissed it and pressed it against my cheek – anything to connect with her, I guess.

"Everything's going to be all right, Nana," I said.

But I couldn't tell if that was the truth or not, or exactly whom I might be lying to.

Chapter 62

I WOKE UP with a hand pressing on my shoulder and someone whispering close to my ear. "Time to go to work, sweetheart. Tia's here."

My aunt Tia set her big canvas knitting bag down at my feet. I'd been awake and then asleep again half a dozen times through the night; it was strange being here, with no windows and no real sense of time, and Nana so sick.

She looked about the same to me this a.m. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. A little of both, maybe. "I'm going to wait for morning rounds," I told Tia.

"No, sweetheart, you're going to go." She nudged my arm to get me out of the chair. "There's not enough room in here, and Tia's calves are killing her. So go on. Go to work. Then you can come back and tell Nana all about it, just like you always do."

The knitting came out automatically, with the big colorful wooden needles she always used, and I saw a thermos and a USA Today in the bag too. The way she settled right in made me remember she'd been through this before, with my uncle, then with her younger sister, Anna. My aunt was almost a professional at caring for the very sick and dying.

"I was going to bring you some of that David Whyte you like," Tia said. At first I thought she was talking to me. "But then I thought no, let's keep you riled up, so I brought the newspaper instead. You know they're outsourcing the statue for Dr. King's memorial to China? China ? Do you believe that, Regina?"

Tia's not a sentimental woman, but in her own way, she's a saint. I also knew there was no chance she'd let Nana catch her crying, coma or no coma. I leaned down and kissed the top of Tia's head. Then I kissed Nana too.

"Bye, Tia, Nana. I'll see you both later."

My aunt kept right on chattering, but I heard Nana answer me. Another echo or memory or whatever these were.

Be good, she told me. And Alex, be careful.

Actually, I wouldn't be in any physical danger right away. Technically, I was on administrative leave after the previous day's shooting. Superintendent Davies kept it down to two days, which I appreciated, but even that was time I couldn't afford. I needed to talk with Tony Nicholson and Mara Kelly. Now. So I asked Sampson to set up some interviews under his name. Then I would just go along for the ride, be another set of ears and eyes.

Chapter 63

THE DETENTION CENTER down in Alexandria is a big old redbrick building at the dead end of Mill Road.

It was where they held Zacarias Moussaoui until he was sentenced to the supermax facility in Florence, Colorado – - which, by coincidence, was the last known residence of Kyle Craig, a serial killer and major piece of unfinished business for me to get to one of these days. It's amazing how small and incestuous the world of major crime can start to feel once you've spent enough time immersed in it, as I had. Just thinking about Kyle Craig got me riled up inside.

Nicholson and Ms. Kelly were being held on the first and second floors, respectively. We had put them in separate interview rooms and then had to shuttle between the two by elevator.

At first, neither of them was willing to say anything except that they'd been the victims of kidnap and assault. I let that go on for a while, several hours, and even subtly let Mara Kelly know that her boyfriend was holding firm. I wanted to build up her trust in Nicholson before I tried to tear it down to nothing.

Next time into the room, I laid a photocopied page on the table in front of her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"See for yourself."

She leaned in, tucking in a loose strand of hair with a white-tipped fingernail. Even here in an interrogation room, Kelly had the kind of gentility that struck me as more practiced than real. She spoke of herself as an accountant, but she'd only finished a year of junior college.

"Plane tickets?" she said. "I don't understand. What are these for?"

Sampson hunkered low over the table. He's six nine and more than a little intimidating when he wants to be, which is most of the time when he's on the job.

" Montreal to Zurich, leaving last night. You read the ticket? You see the names?"

He tapped a finger on the page. "Anthony and Charlotte Nicholson. Your boyfriend was getting ready to run on you, Mara. He and his wife."

She pushed the page away. "Yeah, I've got a computer and a color printer too."

I took out my cell phone and offered it. "There's a number for Swiss Air right there. You want to call and confirm the reservation, Mrs. Nicholson?"

When she didn't answer, I decided to give her a few minutes alone to stew. Actually, she was right – we had faked the tickets. By the time we came back, she was ready. I could see she'd been crying, and also that she'd tried to wipe away any sign of tears.

"What do you want to know?" she asked. Then her eyes narrowed. "What do I get for it?"

Sampson made eye contact with her and held it. "We'll do everything we can to help you."

I nodded. "This is how it works, Mara. Whoever helps us first, we help them."

I turned on the tape recorder and set it down. "Who were the men in the car? Let's start there."

"I have no idea," she said. "I never saw them before in my life." I believed her.

"What did they want? What did they say?"

Here she paused. I had the sense she might be ready to bury Nicholson, but it wasn't a corner she would turn all at once. "You know, I warned him something like this could happen."

"Something like what, Mara?" Sampson asked. "Be a little more specific."

"He's been blackmailing clients of the club. It was supposed to be our 'new-life money.' That's what Tony always called it. Some new life, right?" She gestured around the room. "This is it?"

"What about names? Dead names, made-up ones, whatever you heard. What do you know about the people he was blackmailing?"

Mara Kelly was warming to this, and as she did, her tone got more bitter and sarcastic. "I know that he always covered his bases. Both sides of the aisle. That way, if anyone talks, everyone loses. And if anything happened to Tony, I was supposed to blow the whole thing wide open." She sat back and crossed her slender arms. "That was the idea, anyway. That was the threat he made to the dumbasses he was blackmailing for getting a little nookie."

"And everyone paid up?" Sampson asked her.

Her eyes traveled around the room again like she couldn't believe she was here, that it had all come to this.

"Well, if that was true, we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

Chapter 64

IT DIDN'T TAKE long for Tony Nicholson to start talking a blue streak about the club and the blackmail scheme after that. I'd seen it so many times before, the way suspects will start competing with each other once they sense the ground is shifting. To hear him tell it, Mara Kelly had set up the entire back end: Asian underground banking, public key cryptography – everything they needed to stay out of reach for as long as they had.

"Why do you think they came after her too?" he kept asking us. "Don't be fooled by the pretty face. That bitch isn't nearly as stupid as she appears."

I guess you could say those two were no longer an item. Now things might get interesting.

Nicholson had been sitting on the same rickety folding chair for hours, with his injured leg stuck out to the side in an immobilizer. From the twisted look on his face, he was coming due for a pain pill.

"Okay," I said. "That's a start, Tony. Now let's talk about the real reason we're here."

I took out a file and started laying photos on the table. "Timothy O'Neill, Katherine Tennancour, Renata Cruz, Caroline Cross."

There was a moment of genuine surprise on his face – but just a moment. Nicholson was cool under fire. "What about them?"

"They all worked for you."

"It's possible," he said. "A lot of people work for me."

"It wasn't a question." I pointed at Caroline's picture. "She was found mutilated beyond recognition. Did you catch that on camera too, Nicholson?"

"I seriously don't know what you're talking about. I have no idea what you're getting at. Try making sense when you bother to open your mouth."

"How did she die?"

Something seemed to click suddenly, like a spark in Nicholson's eyes. He looked down at the picture and then back up at me.

"You said Caroline Cross? That's your name, isn't it?" When I didn't answer, his mouth spread into a grin. "Excuse me, Detective, but I think maybe you're in over your head."

"I got up very fast. If the table hadn't been bolted to the floor, I might have pinned Nicholson to the far wall with it.

But Sampson got to him first. He shot around the table and pulled the chair right out from under him. Nicholson flopped onto the floor like a caught fish.

He started to scream. "My leg! My goddamn leg! You bastards! I'll sue you both!"

Sampson didn't seem to hear. "You know Virginia 's a death penalty state, right?"

"What is this, Abu fucking Ghraib? Get the hell away from me!" Nicholson gritted his teeth and pounded the floor. "I didn't kill anyone!"

"But you know who did," I shouted back.

"If I had anything to trade, don't you think I'd use it? Help me up, you stupid assholes! Help me up, here. Hey! Hey!"

We walked out instead. And while we were at it, we took the chairs with us.

Chapter 65

FOUR HOURS LATER, in the name of "coming clean" and telling us what he knew, and most of all, getting the best deal he possibly could, Nicholson offered up access to a safe-deposit box in DC. He said it contained evidence that could help us. I had doubts, but decided to take my progress with him incrementally.

It took some scrambling, but by the next morning Sampson and I were outside the Exeter Bank on Connecticut with fully executed paperwork, a key from Nicholson's desk, and two empty briefcases in case there really was evidence to retrieve.

This place was no ordinary savings and loan, starting with the fact that we had to be buzzed in from the street. The lobby had a do-not-touch kind of feel to it – not a pamphlet or a deposit slip in sight.

From the reception desk, we were directed up to a row of glass-walled offices on the mezzanine. A woman inside one of them put down her phone and turned to look at us as we started up the stairs.

Sampson smiled and waved at her. "Feels like a damn James Bond movie," he said through his teeth. "Come in, Dr. Cross. We've been expecting you."

The branch manager, Christine Currie, was indeed expecting us. Her brief smile and handshake were about as warm as yesterday's oatmeal.

"This is all a bit irregular for us," she said. Her accent was stuffy and British, and more upper-crust than Nicholson's. "I do hope it can be done quietly? Can it be, Detectives?"

"Of course," I told her. I think we both wanted the same thing – for Sampson and me to be back on the street as soon as possible.

Once Ms. Currie had satisfied herself with our paperwork and compared Nicholson's signature in half a dozen places, she led us out to an elevator at the back of the mezzanine. We got on and started down, a very rapid descent.

"You guys do free checking?" Sampson asked. I just stared straight ahead, didn't say a word. Stuffy environments sometimes set John off. Stuffy people too. But most of all, bad people, criminals, and anybody who aids and abets.

We came out into a small anteroom. There was an armed guard by the only other door, and a suit-and-tie employee at an oversize desk. Ms. Currie logged us in herself, then took us straight through to the safe-deposit room.

Nicholson's box, number 1665, was one of the larger ones at the back.

After we'd both keyed the flap door, Ms. Currie pulled out a long rectangular drawer, then carried it to one of the viewing rooms off an adjacent hallway.

"I'll just be outside, whenever you're ready," she said in a way that sounded a lot like Don't take too long with this.

We didn't. Inside the box, we found three dozen disks, each one in its own plastic sleeve and dated by hand in black marker. There were also two leather binders filled with handwritten pages of notes, lists, addresses, and ledgers.

A few minutes later, we left with all of it in our briefcases.

"God bless Tony Nicholson," I said to the unflappable Ms. Currie.

Chapter 66

FOR THE REST of the afternoon, Sampson and I holed up in my office with a pair of laptops. We stayed busy watching and cataloging the extracurricular sex lives of the rich and mostly famous. It was surprisingly repetitive stuff, especially given everything that Tony Nicholson was set up to provide at the club.

The roster of power players, on the other hand, was one big holy shit after another. At least half the faces were recognizable, the kind of people you'd see at a presidential inauguration. In the front row.

The clients weren't just men either. Women were outnumbered about twenty to one, but they were there, including a former US ambassador to the United Nations.

I had to keep reminding myself that every one of these people was – at least technically – a murder suspect.

We set up a log, using the date stamps embedded on each recording. For every clip, we wrote down the name of the clients we recognized and flagged the ones we didn't. I also made a note of where each "scene" took place at the club.

My primary interest was the apartment over the carriage barn, which I'd come to think of as a kind of ground zero for this whole nasty murder puzzle.

And that's where we started to pick up some legitimate momentum. Right around the time I thought my eyes were going to burn out of my head, I started to notice an interesting pattern in the tapes.

"John, let me see what you've got so far. I want to check something."

All of our notes were handwritten at this point, so I laid the pages out side by side and started scanning.

"Here… here… here…"

Every time I saw someone had used the apartment, I circled the date in red pen, ticking off entries as I went. Then I went back over everything I'd circled.

"See this? They were using the studio in the back pretty regularly for a while, and then, about six months ago, it just stops cold. No more parties back there."

"So what happened six months ago?" Sampson asked. The question was more rhetorical than anything, since we both knew the answer.

That's when the killing started.

In which case – where were the rest of Nicholson's disks?

Chapter 67

AFTER WORK, I picked up some Thai food on Seventh and brought it to Bree at the hospital. It wasn't the kind of dinner date she deserved, but anything besides Swiss steak and Jell-O from the cafeteria had to be a big improvement.

It looked like she had a whole mobile-office thing going on, with her laptop and a little printer and files spread out on the counter in the back. The laptop was open to Web MD, and she was busily taking notes when I came in.

"Who ordered the panang curry and pad thai?" I called from the doorway.

"That would be me," Bree said.

She picked her way past all the equipment and gave me a kiss hello.

"How's our girl been doing?" I asked.

"Still fighting. She's amazing; she really is."

Nana looked a little more peaceful, maybe, but otherwise seemed about the same. Dr. Englefield had already warned us not to get too invested in the minutiae. You could drive yourself crazy scrutinizing every little tic and twitch, when the important thing was to keep showing up and never lose hope.

While I unpacked the food, Bree caught me up on the day. Englefield wanted to keep Nana on beta blockers for the time being. Her heart was still weak, but it was steady, for what that was worth. And they were going to take the dialysis down to three times a day.

"There's a new resident, Dr. Abingdon, you should talk to about that," Bree said. "I've got her number right here."

I traded a plate of food and a bottle of water for it. "You're doing too much," I told Bree.

"This is the closest thing I've ever had to a real family," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

I did. Bree's mother died when she was five, and her father never expressed much interest in his children after that. She'd been raised by a series of cousins more than anything, and when she left home at seventeen, she never looked back.

"All the same," I told her, "you can't take off from work indefinitely."

"Sweetie, listen to me. I hate that this is happening. There's nothing good about it. But as long as this is the deal, then I am right where I want to be. End of story, okay? I'm fine with it."

She twirled up a forkful of rice noodles and popped them into her mouth, with a grin I hadn't seen in a while. "Besides, what are they going to do at work, replace me? I'm too good for that."

I couldn't argue there.

Honestly, I'm not sure I could have done everything Bree was doing. Maybe I'm not that generous. But I do know that she made me feel lucky, and incredibly grateful. There was never going to be enough I could do to thank her for this, but Bree didn't seem to want any payback.

We spent the rest of the evening with Nana, reading out loud from Another Country, an old favorite of hers. Then, around ten o'clock, we kissed her good night, and for the first time since this had happened, I went home to sleep in my own bed. Right next to Bree, where I belonged.

Chapter 68

WHEN NED MAHONEY called me the next day and said I should meet him at the Hirshhorn sculpture garden, I didn't question it for a single moment. I left the office right away and marched over there.

The beat goes on. In double time. Now what does Ned want? What has he found out?

He was waiting on one of the low cement walls when I came down the ramp from the Mall side. Before I even reached him, he was up and walking – and when I did come alongside, he started briefing me without so much as a hello. I knew Ned well enough to understand when I should just shut up and listen.

Apparently, the Bureau had already secured an administrative subpoena to get a look at Tony Nicholson's overseas bank records. They'd gotten a whole list of deposits, originating accounts, and names attached to those accounts, through something called the Swift program.

Swift stood for the Society of Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunications. It's a global cooperative based in Belgium that tracks something on the order of six trillion transactions every day. The database doesn't include routine banking – they don't necessarily know when I go to the ATM – but just about everything else is in there. The program was under all kinds of legal scrutiny, since it had come out that the US government was using it to track terror cells, post 9/11. Whatever the obstacles, though, someone at the Bureau had gotten around them.

"If this were my case, which it isn't, I'd follow the numbers," Mahoney said, still peppering me with information. "I would start with the biggest depositors into Nicholson's account and work my way down from there. I don't know how much time you'll have, though, Alex. This thing is unbelievably hot. Something is not right here, in a big way."

"Isn't the Bureau already on it? They have to be, right?"

It was the first question I'd asked in five minutes of nonstop talk. Ned was as manic as I'd ever seen him, which is saying a lot, since he's usually a buzz saw on Red Bull.

"Honestly, I don't know," he said with a shrug. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and we started another lap around the sunken garden.

"Something's sure up, Alex. Here's an example. I don't understand it, but the whole case has been moved out to the Charlottesville Resident Agency, which is a satellite. They'll work with Richmond, I guess."

"Moved? That doesn't make any sense. Why would they do that?"

I knew from past experience that the Bureau didn't swap cases around midstream on a whim. It almost never happened. They might cobble a task force between offices to cover a wider area, but nothing like this.

"Word came down from the deputy director's office yesterday – and they transferred the files overnight. I don't know who the new SAC is, or if there even is one. Nobody'll talk to me about this case. As far as they're all concerned, I'm just a guy running a lot of field agents. I shouldn't even be on this anymore. I definitely shouldn't be here."

"Maybe they're trying to tell you something," I said, but he ignored the joke. It was pretty lame, anyway. I just wanted to calm Ned down a little if I could. I wanted him to speak slowly enough that I could follow.

He stopped by the big Rodin in the garden, took my hand, and shook it in an oddly formal way. "I've got to go," he said.

"Mahoney, you're freaking me out a little here -"

"See what you can get done. I'll find out what I can, but don't depend on the Bureau in the meantime. For anything. Do you understand?"

"No, Ned, I don't. What about this bank list you were just talking about?"

He was already walking away, up the stone stairs toward Jefferson Drive.

"Don't know what you mean," he said over his shoulder, but he was patting his coat pocket when he said it.

I waited for him to leave, then checked my pocket. There, along with my keys, was a black-and-silver thumb drive.

Chapter 69

NED COULD LOSE more than his job for handing over the kind of sensitive information he'd just given me. He could go to jail too. I owed it to him to do as much with the list as I could. So I took his advice and started right at the top – with Tony Nicholson's biggest single "benefactor."

If someone had told me a month ago that Senator Marshall Yarrow of Virginia had a connection to a scandal like this, I would have been highly skeptical. The man had too much to lose, and I don't mean just money – though he had plenty of that too.

Yarrow was a billionaire before he was fifty, riding the dot-com wave in the nineties and then getting out. He'd turned part of his fortune into a Bill Gates-style foundation, run by his wife, focused on children's health initiatives in the United States, Africa, and East Asia. Then he leveraged all that good will, and another big pile of money, into a Senate campaign that no one took too seriously – until he won. Now Yarrow was in his second term, and it was an open secret in Washington that he'd already formed an off-the-books exploratory committee, with his eye on the next presidential election.

So yes, plenty to lose – but he wouldn't be the first Washington politician to blow it all on hubris, would he?

With a little calling around, I found out that Yarrow had a working lunch in his office that day, followed by a one thirty TVA caucus meeting, both in the Russell Senate Office Building. That would put him in the southwest lobby just before one thirty.

And that's when and where I went after him.

At one twenty-five, he came off the elevator with a retinue of power-suited aides, all of them talking at once. Yarrow himself was on the phone.

I stepped into his line of sight with my badge out. "Excuse me, Senator. I was hoping for a minute of your time."

The one woman in the group of aides, strikingly blond, attractive, late twenties, stepped between us. "Can I help you, Officer?"

"It's Detective," I told her, but kept my eyes on Yarrow, who had at least put a hand over his cell. "Just a few questions for Senator Yarrow. I'm investigating a large credit card fraud case in Virginia. Someone may have been using one of the senator's cards – at a social club out in Culpeper?"

Yarrow was very good. He didn't even flinch when I referred to the club at Blacksmith Farms.

"Well, as long as it's quick," he said, just reluctantly enough. "Grace, tell Senator Morehouse not to start without me. You all can go ahead. I'm fine with the detective. I'll be right along. It's okay, Grace."

A few seconds later, the senator and I were alone, as much as you could be in a place like this. For all I knew, the three-story coffered dome over our heads carried sound everywhere and anywhere.

"So, which credit card are we talking about?" he asked, with a perfectly straight face.

I kept my voice low. "Senator, I'd like to ask you about the half-million-dollar transfers you've made to a certain overseas account in the past six months. Would you rather talk about this somewhere else?"

"You know what?" he said, as brightly as if he were being interviewed by Matt Lauer on the Today show. "I just remembered a file I need for this meeting, and I already sent my aides on. Would you mind walking with me?"

Chapter 70

THE FIRST THING I noticed about Marshall Yarrow's private office was how many pictures of himself he had mounted on the walls. There seemed to be a visual clique of "important" people he wanted to be seen with. There was one with the president and one with the vice president. Tiger Woods. Bono. Arnold and Maria. Bob Woodward. Robert Barnett. He was obviously a well-connected man, and he wanted everyone who walked into this office to know it right away.

Yarrow perched on the edge of a huge cherry inlaid desk and made a point of not asking me to sit down.

I'd known I was going to have to be aggressive at first, but now I wanted to back off and see what I could accomplish with a little tact. If Yarrow chose to put up a firewall, it would be hard to get around without subpoenas.

"Senator, let me start by taking any association you may have with that social club off the table. It's not why I'm here," I told him. That wasn't entirely true, but it was good enough for the time being.

"I never said I was associated with any club," he said. It was a balls-of-steel moment on his part, especially considering the sex acts I'd seen him performing on more than one of Nicholson's tapes.

I didn't push it. "Fair enough, but you should know that my focus here is extortion, not solicitation."

"Please don't push your way in here doling out some puzzle pieces and holding onto others, Detective," Yarrow said, suddenly more aggressive. "I'm too smart and too busy a man for that. What exactly are you hoping to walk away with here?"

"Good question, and I have an answer. I want you to tell me that those bank transfers are exactly what I think they are."

There was a long standoff; I guess he was waiting for me to blink.

Then he finally said, "Yeah, okay, let's get this out on the table. I've been to Blacksmith Farms, but for entertainment purposes only. And I don't mean myself. We're talking about out-of-town guests, contributors, visitors from the Middle East, that sort of thing. It's a part of the job, unfortunately.

"I get them in, have a drink or two, and then leave them to it. That's it. Believe me" – he held up his left hand and waggled a gold-banded finger – "I can no sooner afford to piss Barbara off than I can my whole constituency. There's been no solicitation here. Nothing to be blackmailed for. Am I clear on that?"

I was starting to get real sick of people pretending that none of this was happening.

"I'm sorry, Senator, but I have evidence to the contrary. Digital video evidence. You sure this is the way you want to go?"

Senator Yarrow never missed a beat, and he even remembered to pick up the file he'd supposedly forgotten in the office.

"You know, Detective, my caucus meeting started five minutes ago, and if I don't get this important water bill moving today, it's not going anywhere. Assuming there aren't any charges here, you're going to have to excuse me."

"How long is your meeting?" I asked.

He flipped a card from his pocket and held it out between two fingers for me. "Give Grace a call. We'll get you on the schedule," he said.

I could feel the firewall starting to rise, higher and higher, faster and faster.

Chapter 71

I BROUGHT SOME music to Nana's room that night, a mixed artist CD, the Best of U Street, with a lot of the big names from when she went to the clubs there with my grandfather and friends – Basie, Sarah Vaughan, Lena Horne, and Sir Duke himself, the great Mr. Ellington.

I let it play quietly on Bree's laptop while we visited.

The jazz singers' weren't the only familiar voices in the room. I'd also brought along Jannie and Ali. This was the first night the nurses had allowed Ali into the room. He was so quiet and respectful, sitting right next to Nana's bed. Such a good little boy.

"What's this for, Daddah?" he asked in the younger-sounding voice he used when he was a little nervous and unsure of himself.

"That's the heart monitor. You see those lines? They show Nana's heartbeat. You can see that it's steady right now."

"What about that tube there?"

"That's how Nana gets food while she's in the coma."

Then, suddenly, he said, "I wish Nana was coming home soon. I wish it more than anything. I say prayers for Nana all day long."

"You can tell her yourself, Ali. Nana's right here. Go ahead, if you want to say something."

"She can hear me?"

"She probably can. I think so." I put his hand on Nana's and my hand on top of his. "Go ahead."

"Hi, Nana!" he said as if Nana were hard of hearing, and it was difficult not to laugh.

"Inside-the-house voice, buddy," Bree said. "But good enthusiasm there. I'll bet Nana heard you."

Chapter 72

JANNIE WAS MORE reserved with her grandma. She moved kind of awkwardly around the room, like she just wasn't sure how to be herself. Mostly, she hung back by the door until I motioned her over.

"Come here, Janelle. I want to show you and Ali something interesting."

Ali hung on my arm, and Jannie came to look over my shoulder. It was tight in the little space next to the bed, but I liked us pressed in that way, a unit, hopefully ready for whatever came our way.

I took a picture out of my wallet. It was the one I'd found in Caroline's apartment, and I'd been carrying it with me.

"Now, this is Nana Mama, your uncle Blake, and me. Way back in 1976, if you can believe it."

"Daddy! You look ridiculous," Jannie said, pointing at the red, white, and blue hat jammed onto my seventies Afro. "What are you wearing?"

"It's called a boater. It was the Bicentennial, America 's two hundredth birthday, and about a million people were wearing them that day. Very few looked so jaunty, though."

"Oh, that's really too bad." Jannie sounded somewhere between embarrassed and filled with pity for her poor, clueless father.

"Anyway," I went on, "about five minutes after this picture was taken, a big Washington Redskins float came by in the parade. They were throwing out mini footballs, and Blake and I just about lost our minds trying to catch one. We ran after the float for blocks without even a second thought for poor Nana Mama. So you know what happened next, right?"

This was mostly for the kids, but also for Nana – like we were sitting around the kitchen table and she was over at the stove, eavesdropping. I could just imagine her standing there, stirring something good and pretending not to listen in, getting a wisecrack ready for me.

"It took her hours to find us, and let me tell you, when she did, you have never seen Nana that mad in all your life. Not even close."

"Ali stared at Nana, trying to imagine it. "How mad was she? Tell me."

"Well, do you remember when she quit us and moved out for a while?"

"Yeah."

"Madder than that, even. And remember when a certain someone" – I poked Ali in the ribs – "'drove' the vacuum cleaner down the stairs and put scratches all over the wood?"

He played along and dropped his jaw wide open. "Madder than that?"

"Ten times madder, little man."

"What happened, Daddy?" Jannie chimed in.

The truth was, Nana had slapped both of us across the face – before she hugged us silly and then bought us a couple of red, white, and blue cotton candies, as big as our haircuts, on the way home. She'd always been a little old-school that way, at least back then. Not that I ever held the occasional whupping against her. That's just the way it was in those days. Tough love, but it seemed to work on me.

I picked up her hand and looked at her, so frail and still in the bed, like some kind of place marker for the woman I'd known for so long and loved so dearly, possibly since before I could remember.

"You made sure we never ran off like that again, didn't you, Regina?"

Two seconds ago, I'd been making jokes. Now I was feeling overwhelmed, and if I had to guess, I'd say I was feeling a lot of the same emotions Nana had that day on the Mall before she found Blake and me, safe and sound.

I was scared and I was desperate, most likely because I was exhausted from fighting back all the worst-case scenarios in my head. More than anything, I wanted our family to be back together, the way it was supposed to be, the way it had always been.

But I doubted it was going to happen, and I couldn't really face that yet, or maybe ever.

Stay with us, Nana.

Chapter 73

THE NEXT MORNING started early, too early for most of the other detectives on the case. I had a list of names from the diaries in Nicholson's safe-deposit box, and Sampson had confirmed current addresses for twenty-two escorts who'd worked the club in Virginia at one time or another.

Starting at eight, I sent out five teams of two uniformed officers each, to pull in as many from the list of escorts as we could find.

Presumably these were night birds we were going after. First thing in the morning seemed like a good bet. I wanted to talk to as many of them as possible, before any cross talk could start mucking things up and making this investigation even trickier than it was already.

Sampson also called in a favor from our friend Mary Ann Pontano in the Prostitution Enforcement Unit. She arranged for us to use the office they shared with Narcotics on Third Street, and Mary Ann would also be sitting in for at least some of the interviews. I wanted a white female face on our side of the table, to go against the mostly white female prostitutes.

By ten o'clock, we had an impressive fifteen of the twenty-two names accounted for.

I spread them out into every conference room, interview space, cubicle, and hallway available, and I don't think I made any new friends in Narcotics that morning. Too bad. I didn't much care that I might be inconveniencing somebody.

The place was a total zoo, including the four extra officers I kept around to make sure nobody walked out on us. The rest of the team I sent back out to look for the escorts who hadn't turned up. The possibility that some of them might never be found was something I'd have to worry about later.

The interviews started slowly. None of these very pretty women trusted us, and I couldn't blame them much for that. We didn't hold back on details of Caroline's murder, or the possibility of others. I wanted the young women to realize the kind of danger they'd been in, working for Nicholson, working for anyone in the escort business. Anything to get them to talk to us.

A few of the women quickly admitted to recognizing Caroline's picture. She'd gone by the name Nicole when she was at the club, which wasn't often from the sound of it. She was "nice." She was "quiet." In other words, they told me nothing I could use to find her murderer.

Instead of lunch, I took a walk around the block to clear my head, but it didn't help much. Was I wasting my time here? Were we asking the wrong questions? Or should we just let the escorts go and try to salvage the afternoon for something else?

This was the classic problem for me: I never knew when to stop, because stopping always felt like quitting. And I wasn't ready for that yet. For one thing, I still vividly remembered Caroline's "remains." I feared there were several others who'd died the same horrible way.

I was on my way back up Third Street, feeling no better than before, when my phone rang. Mary Ann Pontano's name was on the ID.

"I'm outside," I answered. "Trying to clear my head – if that's possible. Taking a walk."

"Only place I didn't look," she said. "You should get back in here and talk to this girl Lauren again."

I started walking faster. "Red hair, shearling coat?"

"That's the one, Alex. Seems like her memory's warming up. She's got a few interesting things to say about one of the missing girls, Katherine Tennancour."

Chapter 74

JUST LIKE EVERY other escort we'd pulled in today, Lauren Inslee was slender, well-endowed, and absolutely gorgeous. She was a former model in New York and Miami, a graduate of Florida State University, an escort for men with a taste for perky cheerleader types. Nicholson obviously had a variety of tastes to satisfy, but his general aesthetic was "expensive."

"Katherine's dead, isn't she?" That was the first thing Lauren asked when I sat down with her. "Nobody will tell me anything. You want us to talk, but you people won't say a word about what happened."

"That's because we don't know, Lauren. That's why we're talking to you."

"Okay, but what do you think? I don't mean to be morbid. I just want to know. She was a friend of mine, another Florida girl. She was going to be a lawyer. She'd been accepted at Stetson, which is a really good school."

Lauren played with a paper napkin the whole time she spoke, tearing it into tiny pieces. A slice of the pizza we'd brought in sat untouched on a plate next to the torn shreds of napkin. I believed that all she wanted to hear was the truth. So I decided to give it to her.

"The police report says there's no indication that she packed a bag at her apartment. Given the amount of time it's been – yes, there's a good chance she's not coming back."

"Oh, God." The girl turned away, fighting tears, hugging herself tightly.

It was getting more depressing in here by the second. We were in one of the larger interview rooms, with graffiti burning right through the latest paint job on the walls and scorch marks on the floor from years of cigarette butts.

"Detective Pontano says that you mentioned something about a specific client at Blacksmith? And maybe Katherine. Lauren, tell me about the client."

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe. I mean – I know what Katherine told me. But that place was all rumors all the time."

I kept my voice even and as calming as possible. "What did she tell you, Lauren? We're not going to arrest you for anything you say in here. You can believe me on that. This is a big homicide case. I don't give a damn about vice."

"She said she had a private scheduled with someone, a big hitter she called Zeus. That was the last time I ever talked to Katherine."

I wrote it down. Zeus?

"Is that some kind of alias? Or was it Katherine's code for the client?"

She dabbed at her eyes. "An alias. Almost everyone uses booking names. You know – Mr. Shakespeare, Pigskin, Dirty Harry, whatever strikes their fancy. It's not like you don't end up face-to-face. But it does mean nobody's real name gets written down anywhere. Believe me, it's safer for everybody that way."

"Sure it is." I nodded. "So Lauren, do you know who Zeus is? Any idea?"

"I don't know. Honestly. This is what I'm saying, trying to say. Supposedly, he had something to do with the government, but Katherine could be gullible that way. I didn't even think twice about it when she told me."

My mind was racing ahead a little now. "Gullible how? Can you expand on that for me? What do you mean?"

Lauren sat back and pushed both hands through her hair, away from her face. I think finally talking about Katherine was a relief for her – if not for me.

"This is the thing you need to understand," she said, and leaned in closer. "Clients lie about what they do all the time. Like, if you think they're more important than they really are, you'll work harder, or let them go bareback or whatever crazy shit it is they're fantasizing about. So I never believe half of what I hear. In fact, I just assume that the ones who talk about their lives are lying. The men with the real power? Those are the ones who keep it all to themselves."

"And Zeus?"

"Honestly, I don't even know if he exists. It's just a name. The name of a Greek god, right? Greek? Maybe that's a clue? His sexual preference?"

Chapter 75

I NEVER GOT to make up my own mind about what I thought of Lauren's story – because the next morning, it was made up for me.

I was gassing up my rental at a 7-Eleven on L Street near home, mostly thinking about how I missed my own car. It was in the shop for new glass after the shootout in Alexandria, and I wanted it back – yesterday. There's just no substitute for familiarity, the old faithful comfort zone, even the cup holder in just that spot where you automatically reach.

When the cell phone rang, it was a blocked number, but I'd been answering everything since Nana went into the hospital. I didn't even think about it.

"Dr. Cross?" It was a woman's voice, a little formal, no one I knew. "Please hold for the White House chief of staff."

Before I could respond, I was put on hold. I was stunned – not just by the call itself but by the timing. What the hell was going on here? What now? The White House was calling? Could this be for real?

It didn't take long for Gabriel Reese to come on the line. I recognized his distinctive voice right away, probably from seeing him on the news and the occasional Sunday morning show like Meet the Press.

"Hello, Detective Cross, how are you today?" he began in a chipper enough tone.

"I guess that depends, Mr. Reese. May I ask, how did you get my number?"

He didn't answer, of course. "I'd like to meet with you as soon as possible. Here in my office would be best. It's all been cleared up the line. How soon could you be available?"

I thought about Ned Mahoney and how agitated he had been the other day. How paranoid he had seemed about the records from the investigation getting out. Well – I guess they were out.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reese, but what is this about? Can I at least ask that?"

There was a pause on the line, carefully chosen, maybe; I wasn't sure. Then Reese said, "I think you already know."

Well, I did now.

"I can be there in about fifteen minutes," I said.

Then Reese surprised me again.

"No. Tell me where you are. We'll pick you up."

Chapter 76

A LIVERY CAR with a military driver got to my location within a few minutes. The driver followed me to a nearby parking garage, waited, and then took me to the White House.

We came in at the Northwest Appointment Gate, off Pennsylvania. I had to show my ID twice, to the sentry at the gate and then to the armed guard who greeted me at the West Wing turnaround. From there, a Secret Service agent walked me straight in through the entrance closest to the Rose Garden.

I'd been to the White House enough times to know that I was on a fast track, leading straight to the chief of staff's office.

I also understood that they didn't want my visit to attract attention, the reason for the escort.

Gabriel Reese had a reputation as a wonk more than a bulldog, but also for the kind of covert power he wielded here. He and President Vance went back years. More than a few pundits had labeled him the de facto vice president of the administration. What that meant to me was Reese had either initiated this meeting on his own or at the president's request. I didn't think I liked either possibility.

My Secret Service escort delivered me to a woman whose voice matched the one from before, on the phone. She offered coffee, which I declined, and then walked me right in to meet Gabriel Reese.

"Detective Cross, thank you for coming." He shook my hand across his desk and motioned for me to sit in one of the tall wing chairs. "I'm so sorry about your niece. It must have been a horrible shock. I can't even imagine."

"It was, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you, I'm a little uneasy with the amount of information you have about this case."

He looked surprised. "It would be much stranger if I didn't. Anything to do with the White House is the Secret Service's job to know."

I tried to cover my surprise. What did my murder investigation have to do with the White House? What was going on?

"In that case, I would have thought I'd be meeting with them," I said. "The Secret Service."

"One thing at a time," he said. Fine – that was about all my nervous system could handle anyway.

There was nothing aggressive about Reese's manner; he just seemed very sure of himself. Actually, he seemed younger in person, even a little preppy looking, with a button-down collar and conservative tie. You'd never know to see him that his thumbprint was on American policy all over the world.

"For now," he went on, "I'd like to hear about how the investigation is coming along. Bring me up to speed about the way you see things, what you've found out so far."

This interview was getting stranger by the minute.

"It's coming along fine, thanks."

"I meant -"

"I think I know what you meant. With all due respect, though, Mr. Reese, I don't report to the White House." Not yet anyway.

"I see. Of course you're right. You're absolutely right. My apologies for overreacting."

I'd already gone further than I meant to, but so had Reese. I decided to stay on the offensive with him.

"Have you ever heard the name Zeus in connection with any of this?" I asked.

He considered the question for a second. "Not that I can recall. And I think I would, a name like Zeus."

I was pretty sure he was lying, and it reminded me of something Lauren Inslee had said about her clients: Why would someone like Reese even answer my question, except to lie?

When the phone on his desk buzzed, he picked it up right away. He watched me while he listened, then stood as soon as he hung up. "Would you excuse me for a minute? I'm sorry about this. I know how busy you are."

As he walked out of the room, a Secret Service agent stepped into the open door with his back to me. I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I tried to leave. Instead, I just sat there and attempted to get my bearings. Why was the White House chief of staff involved with my case? How?

Soon enough, there were voices outside, just a low murmur that I couldn't understand from where I was sitting.

The agent in the door stepped out and another one took his place. He came in and glanced quickly around the office. His eyes played right over me, the way they did the rest of the furniture.

Then he moved aside to make way for the president, who walked into the room smiling.

"Alex Cross. I've heard so much about you. All of it good," she said.

Chapter 77

THE PRESIDENT'S VIBE was completely different from Reese's. She was almost collegial the way she shook my hand and settled onto the tufted leather couch instead of behind the desk. Not that it did anything to put me at ease.

"I've read your book," she told me. "Years ago, but I remember it well. Very interesting stuff. And so very scary because it's all true."

"Thank you, Madam President."

I admired Margaret Vance. She'd done a lot to get both sides of the aisle talking to each other. She and her husband, Theodore Vance, were both powerful figures not only in Washington but around the world. All things being equal, I would have liked to work with the president. But things were definitely not equal right now.

"I'd like to ask you a favor, Dr. Cross." She nodded at her agent to leave us alone, and I waited for him to close the door.

"Regarding my investigation?"

"That's right. I think you'll agree it's important this case not proceed in a way that could threaten innocent people, or especially national security, or even the everyday workings of our government. Allegations can be just as harmful as indictments if they're brought to light in the wrong way. You know that, of course."

"Yes," I agreed. "I have a bit of experience with that."

"So you can appreciate the delicacy here." She was talking more at me than to me, and seemed to think this was all already settled. "I'd like you to meet with one of our lead agents, Dan Cormorant, get him up to speed, and transition the case into his care."

"I'm not sure that I'm in a position to do that," I told her. "For several reasons."

"It won't be a problem. The Service's uniformed division has all the statutory authority of the Metropolitan Police."

I nodded. "Within the city limits, that's true."

It was like I wasn't even speaking anymore, the way she went on. "And of course, all the field resources any investigation could possibly need. We've got the best in the world working for us here." She stopped and looked at me over the top of her glasses. "Present company excluded, of course."

My, my, my. It's a truly original feeling to have your ass kissed by the leader of the free world. Too bad I couldn't enjoy it for more than a few seconds. I've got a pretty good internal compass, but for all I knew, it was sending me right over an edge I'd never come back from.

"President Vance," I said. My heart might have been thudding, but my mind was still clear. "I'd like to take all of this under advisement and respond sometime in the next twenty-four hours, either in writing or in person, whichever you prefer."

She didn't try to hide how she felt about that. Two lines showed up around her mouth like parentheses.

"I'm not here to negotiate, Dr. Cross. This meeting is a courtesy, and an extraordinary one at that. I assumed someone like you preferred not to be walked over. That was obviously my mistake." She stood up and I followed suit. "Frankly, I'm surprised. I've been told you were a bright man and a patriot."

"A patriot in a very difficult position right now, Madam President."

Vance didn't address me after that. The last thing I heard her say was to the agent on the other side of the door as she left.

"Show Dr. Cross out. We're done here."