“They asked if she wanted the venue changed. She said no. And then, on to Chicago in the evening … . Nick, what happened tonight?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

“Is there … anything Margaret needs to know?”

“She ask you to ask that?”

“No.”

Of course not.

“Dan asked you, right?” Addis said.

“Nick, with Clarence and everything else, we just thought—”

“And with Harris Griffith, a dead accountant—”

She said nothing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Addis said. “Somewhere. Washington is a small town.”

“Then, I guess … Well, good night, Nick.”

“Yeah.”

He hung up the phone and returned to the living room. Stephanie was on the couch. McGreer was at the window, peering out at the street. Grayton was gone. “He said to tell you good-bye,” Stephanie said. “That he’d talk to you in the morning.”

“I’m sure there’ll be a lot of that,” Addis said.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.”

When they were in the guest room, Addis faced McGreer’s wife. “Why is he sticking with Mumfries?” he asked.

“And not helping Margaret … .”

After being associated with the Hanovers, as a fund-raiser, adviser, or friend, ever since their law school days.

Addis did not say anything.

“He really likes it,” Stephanie explained. “Really does. More than he thought … .” She looked into the room. “The bed is made. There are towels. If you need anything, just …”

He doesn’t think Margaret can do it, and he won’t take a risk for her. It’s Stephanie who feels the shame. Damn, never ask a wife why her husband is a shit.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Addis lay in bed. It was less than a day since he had slept inches from her and had breathed the air that had brushed against her skin. How could he describe the smell? Sweet? Warming? He could not find the accurate word.

What had she died for? Nothing would give her death meaning. During the past weeks, he had floated down the path that led to the canal …

Hands and arms moving smoothly with the current. A billowing blouse.

… while Julia had consciously, conscientiously pursued a course that ended in the water and muck. He needed to push aside the numbness, the shock. Nothing he could do would compensate. But there would be choices to make, Addis thought. Tomorrow. And they would have meaning.

So, then, who knew? Knowledge was responsibility, he told himself. Grayton had been aware of what she was doing. And Wenner? Addis always had thought well of Wenner. Would he wittingly smother the truth about a presidential assassination? What about Kelly? Would Grayton tell him, warn him of a flap of historic proportion? If Kelly knew, would he tell Mumfries? Had the current President been informed that the assassin of Bob Hanover could be tied to the CIA, a government agency over which Mumfries once had oversight authority?