Rudd continued the explanation. Timmons remembered the name of Rudd’s law firm and called it this morning. She told the receptionist that she was with the Secret Service and needed to speak with Rudd immediately.

“She watches lots of old TV shows,” Starrell said. “With detectives and all that.”

When Rudd came to the phone, Timmons confessed the ruse and said she had a friend who had been working with Dunne. She told Rudd about her friend’s visit to the Gauntlet bar, about her friend’s rescue of a lady from the CIA, about her friend’s conversation with Dunne in the car.

Julia had not told him everything, Addis thought. Not about this rescue at the bar. Not about Starrell. Had that been oversight or prudence? Mistrust or the natural reticence of her profession? Dunne, too, had not mentioned Starrell to Addis.

I’ve been compartmentalized. By him and by her.

“You?” Addis asked. “The friend?”

Starrell almost smiled. “Man, you looked right at me, at that burnedup diner. I was in the car. Guess you don’t remember.”

“Guess not.”

Timmons, Rudd went on, also told her about the notes Dunne had taken during his conversation with the man from the Gauntlet, about the break-in at the house in Arlington, about Starrell’s visit to the hospital.

The man from the Gauntlet? That must be Dawkins. The man whom Grayton said was Morrison’s accomplice. Dunne had found Dawkins before he was killed in the raid. More proof Julia was right. The Agency was hooked into this.

Starrell peered around the room. Students—even in the summer. They kept looking at his table. He wondered if any had seen him the day before when they ditched the ambulance.

Timmons had told Rudd the knapsack contained papers that Dunne wanted Addis to see. She asked Rudd for help.

“But,” Rudd told Addis, “she said that I couldn’t see what was in the bag. Only you could.”

Starrell sat erect. He watched Addis absorb the information. He also kept an eye on the students. Was anyone heading to the phone? No way anyone would recognize him from that sketch. His lips were not as big, his face not as square.

“And all this is true?” Addis asked Starrell.

“Yes—” He thought about saying “sir,” but did not.

“And does anyone else know what Clarence was up to?”

“Don’t think so.” Starrell saw Dunne in the car. A bullet passing through the neck. The red spray.

“There was this one thing,” Starrell added. “Mr. Dunne was flicked. Said he had tried to talk to somebody.”

“Who?” Addis asked.

“His boss. Said all he fuckin’ cared about was some Chinese shit.”

That made sense to Addis: Dunne went to the Treasury Secretary, and Alter wasn’t interested. Just like Palmer wasn’t interested.

“May I?” Addis said and pointed to the bag.

“Yup,” Starrell said. He slid it across the table. “The notebook’s there, too.”