He said good-bye to Amelia. There was a tear at the edge of her eye. Whalen removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it. He then took Addis by the arm and escorted him from the sunroom.

“Gets pretty emotional. You can imagine.” Before Addis could reply, Whalen was on to another subject: “Was playing golf with Bob a few months back. He told me that he thought Sam was being a bit too friendly with this woman in the White House. Katie somebody. But then Bob always thought that about everyone.”

Addis knew whom he meant. She worked in the domestic policy shop. He had heard the rumors. He didn’t want to be drawn into this conversation.

“Do you think Margaret should?” Addis asked.

“Don’t think Bob would have any problem with it. Probably get a kick out of it.”

At the door, Whalen gave Addis a hearty handshake.

“Flip, one more thing,” Addis said.

“What’s that?” Whalen asked.

Addis discerned a trace of irritation in Whalen’s voice.

He knows what I’m going to ask about. He must. Or is he just tired? Didn’t he already say there was nothing to it? The guy was on drugs. His other stories didn’t check out. Case closed, right? A stiff swinging in the county lockup. A suicide. Case closed. Live with it.

“Nothing, Flip. It was great to see you and Amelia.”

“She’s a fighter, Nick, I got to tell you. She’s a fighter.”

“I can tell.”

Addis stood before a rundown building a few blocks from the criminal courthouse, an area of unused warehouses and cheap office space. There were three bail bondsmen storefronts on the street. In the lobby, he found a directory written on a piece of cardboard and taped to the inside of what once was a glass case. He started up the stairs, grabbing the wooden railing. A slab of dry paint came off in his hand.

On the third floor, Addis rapped on a grime-encrusted glass door. No one answered, but the door opened. He stepped in gingerly.

“Harris, you mother-fucking—”

A woman ran out of the other room in the suite. She was tall, her hair platinum blond. She wore high heels and a short black skirt. She was waving a gun and came to a stop when she saw him.

“You’re not Harris.”

“Thank God,” he said.

She put the gun in the shiny black purse slung over her shoulder.

“He gave it to me,” she said of the gun, and shrugged.

No one else was in the suite. The room held two filing cabinets. One desk had a cheap calculator on it. A stack of papers sat on another desk. Cardboard storage boxes was piled against the wall. On the opposite wall, a calendar was turned to the wrong page: a bucolic snowy scene of a country church.

“You know where he is?” she asked.