A waiter brought Burton another beer and Addis a Coke.

“You know my dad told me not to get involved in all this,” Burton said.

“In what?”

“Politics. Wanted me to tend to the hotel and look after a pipe-fitting business he co-owned. Pissed I went off to law school. Know what he told me once?”

“What?” Addis asked.

“Told me, ‘The only thing wrong with politics is politicians. You gotta sign up with somebody. And that means you’re signing up with everything that person ever done.’”

“Pretty insightful. And you didn’t take his advice?”

Burton took a swig of beer.

“Hell, you want to run pipe fitters all day?”

“I wouldn’t know what that’s like,” Addis said.

“Guess you wouldn’t.”

“Wonder where your lady friend is,” Burton said.

“Me, too.”

28 - Arlington Hospital, Arlington, Virginia June 28

28

Arlington Hospital, Arlington, Virginia June 28

Slight concussion, two stitches in the forehead, bruised ribs, a wrenched shoulder—Julia Lancette reported her condition to Clarence Dunne, who was sitting next to her bed in the hospital room. The nurse had told her she could leave as soon as the doctor came by. Dunne noticed that the chart hanging on the bed bore a different name than the one he had called her the previous night.

“I’d like to say thank you,” Lancette said. “Any news about our friend?”

“The license plate was stolen. No word on the car.”

“And I still haven’t figured out what you were doing there.”

“Maybe if we talk, it will help you sort things out.”

“You sound like my mom.”

“I have three boys … . Perhaps you’ll permit me to go first?”

“Shoot.”

“What should I call you?”

“Julia Lancette. The name on the chart. You read it on the way in.”

“But your business card … .”

“If you search a newspaper index you’ll find out I used to be an analyst with the CIA. Got into a pissing match about an estimate and almost got canned. It was my fifteen minutes.”

“I remember. But you were reinstated?”

“Right. But once you irritate these guys, reinstatement is meaningless. It’s like they let you back into the store and then tell you nothing is for sale.”

“And now you’re with Inter-Business Media. Never heard of it.”

“A news service. A small outfit.”

Dunne raised an eyebrow.

“A front?” he asked.

“Small outfit,” she said. “When I first joined there was a mistake and I received business cards with the wrong name, but, coincidentally, the same initials. We couldn’t figure out why. I kept the cards. Use them as a joke once in a while. I was in that bar, and this fellow demanded I give him a card. I gave him a phony one.”

Dunne did not believe her. But he admired her ability to think fast.

“I see … . And who were you looking for at the Gauntlet?”

“Who were you looking for, Mr. Dunne?”