Addis stood before a closed diner and thought Dunne had given him the wrong address. The windows were boarded up. He saw a gang-banger sitting in a car and thought about several friends who complained they could not find buyers for their homes in this Capitol Hill neighborhood. A townhouse across the street had bricks cemented in the doorway. Three white vans were parked in front of the house. Renovators or narcs, he wondered.

On the front door of the restaurant was a note: “Due to arson, Benny P’s will be closed indefinitely.” He knew the place. He had eaten here when he worked in the Senate. It was not a regular haunt for aides and lobbyists. It was a spot to escape the power-suits. Grilled cheese sandwich, greasy fries, and a Coke. Addis tried the door; it opened.

The smell of soot was in the air. The floor tiling crackled beneath his feet. Smoke stains covered the walls. A large piece of the ventilation system hung from the pressed-tin ceiling. Dunne was in the only remaining booth in the diner. With him was a woman with thick, naturally pink lips and straw-yellow hair. A small bandage was on her forehead.

Addis gingerly stepped between pieces of debris and sat next to Dunne and across from the woman. Late-twenties, he thought, a lot in her eyes.

“Friend owns this place,” Dunne said. “Been in the family for twenty-seven years. Some punks broke in. Smashed it up. Then started playing with the stove. Burnt the place down. Insurance money may not cover it.”

“Too bad,” Addis said. “I used to come here.”

Dunne introduced him to Julia Lancette.

“We think that’s her name,” Dunne joked.

He did not explain further. Addis tried not to let Lancette draw a disproportionate amount of his attention.

“There’s another death,” Dunne said. “Raymond, the owner of First Ladies.”

Before replying, Addis glanced at Lancette.

“She knows,” Dunne said. “We’re engaged in an unprecedented act of interagency cooperation. The Secret Service, the White House and”—he paused for dramatic effect—“the CIA. Ms. Lancette works for our friends across the river. A scout for skeletons and old ghosts, if I have it right.”

“That’s close,” she said.

Addis watched her mouth move.

“She was engaged in extracurricular work of her own,” Dunne said, “and her project overlapped with ours. She’s been looking for a man with a tattoo, similar to the one found on the fellow still known as Max Bridge. And she doesn’t think everyone in her world appreciates her efforts.”

Addis had a dozen questions. He wanted to know more about her. But he told himself to stay focused.

“Raymond—what happened?” he asked.

“Killed in his own apartment. Police say it looks professional. Their theory—not for public dissemination: the never officially acknowledged DC mob. That he didn’t pony up for them. They’ve been making a move on the escort business.”

“And you?”