She inspected the stack of memorabilia piled on a rocking chair. There was a hat from the U.S.S. Constitution. A photograph of Addis at a ceremony at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, his arms around two famous musicians. A folder of letters from schoolchildren. A framed citation, signed by Hanover, thanking Addis for his participation in the passage of an education bill. A postcard with a photograph of the Empire State Building. Lancette flipped it over. “From one sin city to another,” the handwritten message read, “Love, J.” She recalled the news reports of Addis’s affair with a famous model who went by a single name that began with the letter J.

Addis returned to the room. She dropped the card on the pile.

“Do you want coffee, tea, or anything?” he asked. “Hot chocolate?”

She picked up from the floor a cardboard container for a six-pack. But instead of beer, there were miniature bottles of champagne in the slots. Each had the presidential seal on it.

“Product endorsements?” she asked.

“If you go to the Kennedy Center and sit in the President’s box, they have a refrigerator there. With a combination lock on it—”

“And you have the combination.”

“Yes. Six-six-six, believe it or not. Don’t tell the Christian right.”

“Do you think they change it with each administration?”

“If they do, I’ll probably never know. Should I open one?”

“No, no,” she said. “You’ll want to keep these.”

She wiped the dust off the bottles and put them back on the floor.

“And would it be real or fake?” she asked.

He looked puzzled.

“The hot chocolate. Are you going to actually heat up milk and add true chocolate syrup? Or is it, rip open a package of powder and pour in boiling District water?”

“Let me try to find some clean sheets,” he said.

“What about the story you promised? Mondreau?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He looked around the room. Every chair was covered with books and papers but the one at the desk. He pulled it over and sat in front of her.

He told her about the phone call from Flip Whalen, the suspect’s confession, the reported suicide. He told her about his role in advising Hanover on Mondreau’s execution. He did not mention the breach that his advice had caused between him and Rudd. As he spoke, he stared out the bay windows and watched people heading toward the nightlife of Adams Morgan. When he finished, he looked at her. Her elbows were on her knees, her chin resting against her palms.

“Is that why you were in New Orleans?” she asked.

“Not really. I thought about asking around a little, but …”

“You didn’t want to know?”