The two walked through the apartment. There were a few dishes in the sink. Addis ran a fingers across the top of a stereo speaker and then brushed the dust off his hand. The bed in the bedroom was unmade.

“Let’s find a few sweaters,” she said and began looking through a closet.

“Let me ask you, why would he need sweaters in Africa?”

“In the mountains, on the high plains, it gets cold at night.”

“I know you had to say he needed something,” Addis said, “but couldn’t he buy sweaters over there?”

Lancette tossed two sweaters to Addis. “He’s hyper-allergic. He can only wear sweaters made with organic fibers and natural dye. And over there, you can never tell.”

“That’s good,” Addis said. “Good tradecraft.”

“Now rip the labels out of the sweater and flush them down the toilet,” she told him. “Good tradecraft is the work of an obsessive, anal, compulsive mind that would otherwise drive you crazy—an Agency instructor once told me that.”

“So I’m learning.” He walked to the bathroom.

Lancette searched the back of the closet and pulled out a box full of University of Michigan memorabilia.

“What are you looking for?” Addis asked.

“I don’t see it. Let’s go downstairs.”

They left the bedroom and headed toward the door.

“Wait a second,” Addis said.

“What?” she asked.

He was staring at the bookshelves.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Hold on.” He wiped the front edge of one of the shelves with his fingertips and showed his hand to her.

“No dust,” he said. “Clean. Dust on top of the speakers. No dust on any of the shelves.” He pulled out several books. “So—”

“Either he has a spotty cleaning lady or somebody went through all his books, maybe looking for something stuck between the pages. We’re not the first. Great minds think alike. Let’s check downstairs and then get out of here.”

The journal about his work for the prison system, she thought; it wasn’t in the closet. Shit, someone had been here.

Lancette tried the lightswitch in the storage room. It didn’t work.

“We’ll have to keep the door open,” she said. “For light.”

There was a slight puddle of water that had formed beneath a pipe that ran across the ceiling of the dark room. The air was musty. The room was full of plastic crates. Most were packed with books, a few contained clothes. One was full of videotapes.

“Think they missed all this?” he asked.

“Could be. They would have had to have known about it.”

Addis picked through a box; none of the videotapes were marked. Porn, he guessed. More secrets.

“And overlooked something so obvious?” he asked.