Or Helen A. Peters? Addis had cut short his phone conversation with the clerk in the Rapides Parish records office. Had there been a middle name? One that began with an A? Helen A. Peters? Initials: H. A. P. That’s damn close to HAPPY.

“Oh fuck,” Addis said.

“What is it?” Rudd asked.

“Nothing,” Addis replied. “And everything. Every fucking thing.”

49 - Connecticut Avenue July 1

49

Connecticut Avenue July 1

Addis and Starrell pushed through the lunchtime pedestrians. Addis didn’t care about the surprised looks. Screw it. He was the clown of the day. The media object of the moment. Stories around the clock on cable. The canal footage repeated over and over. Endless demands from journalists for comments. Television reporters interviewing his neighbors. Ever see this woman before? Uninformed speculation from pundits. Jim, what does this mean for the convention? Well, Bob, it could mean a great deal, but we won’t know until all the facts are in. Lawyers trading theories on talk shows. Journalists chasing after anyone who knew her. Nothing unraked, nothing untouched, nothing left alone.

Oh shit, her family.

He pondered what he had read in the sandwich shop. He was still wondering if there were any other ways to interpret it. Matthew Morrison’s mother—nickname Happy?—had owned the land before the Elva Partnership acquired it and sold it to the Hanovers. And that line about twitching: “I hope you ain’t got the twitches yet.” What did that mean? He shook his head. Just like clearing an Etch-a-Sketch, he thought.

“So how did you get involved in all this?” he asked Starrell.

“Mr. Dunne asked me to.”

“And you volunteered?”

“No. He cashed me.”

Two attorneys from the White House counsel’s office were standing on a corner. Addis nodded at them and kept walking.

“So what do you want for this?” Addis shook the knapsack.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Why not?”

A bearded man in a suit stepped in front of Addis and forced him to stop. “Gabe Hershberg, Mr. Addis. L.A. Times. Got a minute?” He was pulling a notepad from his pocket.

“No.” Addis tried to pass the reporter. The man moved to block Addis.

“Just one or two questions, please.”

Starrell grabbed the journalist, spun him around, and pushed him into the street. A cab braked to avoid striking the reporter.

“Thanks,” Addis said to Starrell.

“Fuck you!” the reporter yelled.

Addis resumed walking, Starrell by his side. Neither responded to the shouting: “Fuck the fuck you!”

“So I was asking,” Addis said. “Why don’t you want anything out of this?”

“NYFB,” Starrell replied before he thought about the answer.

“That’s a new one on me, but I can guess.”

Starrell cleared his throat. “Just trying to prove something,” he said.

“To who?” Addis asked.

“Just trying.”