“Someone inside, a psychiatrist, told Julia that he once treated a guy with the same tattoo found on the assassin. It probably was Dawkins. Which could mean the Agency’s somehow connected. And they killed his report on this.”

“Okay, okay,” Palmer said.

He placed a row of peanuts on his desk and applied his palm to each one, breaking them open in succession.

“Nick, here’s the question I have for you: Why are you telling me?”

Addis blinked. He rubbed his chin. He thought it was obvious. He began to worry.

“Well … you’re on the presidential commission on the assassination.”

“Yes, I am. But I’d have to be a damn fool to say a single syllable about the CIA being involved in the assassination unless I got something we lawyers call evidence. You got five thousand FBI agents chasing after every turd Morrison and Dawkins ever kicked out. Everyone’s swarming over what happened to Clarence. Do you know for certain if he was out last night doing something that was part of this little independent investigation you two got going?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So I think it would be premature for me to say that the attack on poor Clarence was connected. And then there’s the CIA. I dislike the pricks there as much as anyone. Except for Wenner. I like him fine, but he can’t control his own gang. Like a rabbit in charge of mules. Or maybe it’s the other way around. But I can’t start to say boo about them. Even at one of our own meetings. I do, and it will leak. Don’t you think Gravitt would get a horse’s boner, telling a reporter I was accusing the CIA of something like that? It’s a no-brainer for him. Either I look like I’m batty, or the administration is implicated in this god-awful thing. And what else can I do? Tell Wenner. Tell Mumfries. Hell, Nick, you could do that yourself. You could hold a press conference right now on the steps of the Capitol. I’ll pick up this phone here—”

Palmer lifted the receiver.

“Hello? Press gallery? Please notify everyone that Mr. Nicholai Addis, senior adviser to the President of the United States, wishes to meet with the congressional press corps in two-and-a-half minutes … . We can whip up a fine audience for you, Nick. But seems to me you have stories, not proof. Damn interesting stories. But I’m not going to be your storyteller.”

He put the receiver down. The line rang. Palmer put the phone to his ear. “Fuck them!” he said. “Tell them that I better not see their backsides at the next caucus meeting crying about how the transportation grant formula screws their states.”

He slammed the phone.

“Lewis and Davis. Lost them, too … . Nick, there’s something else.”

He scooped up the peanut shells and dumped them in a metal garbage can.