They checked into a bed-and-breakfast in the lower French Quarter. It was several blocks from the small hotel where they had stayed four years before. Their suite looked like an antique shop, cluttered with pieces and knickknacks from various periods. Dark red drapes hung over the windows. The wallpaper had a fish pattern. In the main room was a four-poster bed with a feather mattress. The door to the adjoining room was open, and Addis tossed his bag on the bed there—a clear reminder, he thought. He asked Rudd if she wanted to have lunch at Antoine’s. Sure, she said. He told her that he first had to make a few phone calls.

“That’s alright,” she said. “I’ll walk to the river. I can never get over that the river is above the city.”

How strange is this?

“Have fun,” he said.

After Rudd left, Addis went to the pay phone in the alcove off the lobby. He called Whalen and arranged to visit him that afternoon. He then tried Harris Griffith, the accountant, and got the answering machine again. He called directory assistance and obtained an address for Griffith. Next Addis dialed Mickey Burton, the parish chair in Alexandria, and made plans to see him the next day. He returned to the room. When Rudd came back, they went to lunch.

The maitre d’ at Antoine’s hugged Addis at the door. He cried and offered his condolences.

“He was loved,” the host said. “You see that now.”

“Yes, he was,” Addis replied.

The maitre d’ did not ask if he had a reservation. He seated them in a booth and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He patted his moustache.

“And how long are you in town?” he asked.

“A few days. A short break.”

“And you are staying where?”

Always working. Everybody is always working. Tell him; he tells the Times-Picayune, and there’s a photographer stationed there. A trip to New Orleans by a senior Hanover aide counts as news here.

“Nearby,” Addis answered. He knew to expect a reporter outside the restaurant by the end of the meal. That could not be avoided, and that was the point. Best to hide in plain sight, he thought. Better to be photographed, he figured, than to be caught avoiding being photographed. Having Rudd at his side helped.

“Can I have the chef prepare something special for you and your friend?”

“Please.”

The meal arrived—a crayfish stew. And when they were done, the waiter refused to provide a bill. Instead the maitre d’ came over and said the meal was a gift from him.

“But I’m not allowed to accept gifts,” Addis explained.

“Then it is a gift for your lovely friend.” He nodded toward Rudd.

“Thank you,” she said.

A reporter was waiting for Addis outside the door. He was a young man, his face pock-marked. Next to him was a photographer.