The voice belonged to one of the governor’s security men. A muscular Black guy with a bald head and a body like a keg of beer. His name tag read Sampson. A shorter white man beside him held a clipboard.

“Can we get your name and see your credentials, sir?” Sampson asked.

I sized the two men up. They weren’t state police. Or GBI. They were private security.

“This is my press pass,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m here to see Toby Monroe.”

“The governor isn’t taking any appointments today,” Sampson said. “If you’d like to set a time to talk tomorrow, we can certainly get his secretary to check his calendar.”

The guy was big enough to go bear hunting with a switchblade and no friends. But I was in a crazed state, and I didn’t care. “Tell Monroe it’s P. T. Marsh,” I said. “When he chooses not to see me . . . bad things happen to him.”

Sampson walked away, his phone to his ear. His shorter colleague moved into his place, blocking the gate. The smaller man puffed out his chest. And behind me, two men waited, one of them holding an enormous tripod.

Sampson came back a minute later and waved me in. I walked with him, up the steps and onto the porch. A foyer inside the door held four white couches. Beside them were tables topped with antique glass, hand-painted with silver fleurs-de-lis.

“Through that door.” Sampson pointed across the room.

I walked across the foyer and into a small room where Monroe sat in a director’s chair. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short and had more pepper than usual.

A blonde in a black smock was brushing powder onto his face.

“Detective Marsh,” Monroe said. “I knew you liked politics, but I didn’t count on your attendance at the announcement of my platform. Welcome.”

The makeup artist smiled at me, and I leaned close to the governor.

“Jed Harrington,” I said.

“That was a good kill, Detective. I’m sorry I was unable to get to the banquet in your honor.”

“He was working on an exposé of you.”

Monroe offered a sharklike smile. “Jeanine,” he said to the woman. “Do you mind if I speak with Detective Marsh alone for a moment?”

“Of course,” the woman said.

She left, and Monroe’s smile faded. “Harrington was a journalist, so if he was writing an exposé, I reckon that’s his right.”

“I have all of it,” I said. “Every word.”

The door Jeanine left through opened, and Monroe’s assistant stuck her head in. “Sir, we’re gonna be live in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

A smile was plastered on Monroe’s face. “Thank you, Tammy,” he said, his voice ringing with confidence. “Just give us a few minutes.”

The door shut then, and I turned to him. “Harrington had a digital backup.”

“A backup of what exactly?” he asked.

I shook my head at him. “You sent that ghost of yours to get Harrington’s files, but you didn’t get the only copy.”