The maid was leaving, and she let Addis into the suite. He passed through an anteroom and into a sitting room with two sofas and a desk. No one was there. The door to the bedroom was ajar. He peered inside: empty. He turned back to the sitting room and then heard a noise behind him, a click.

“Don’t m-m-m-move.” It was Lem Jordan.

Addis stood still, keeping his back toward Jordan.

“It’s me. Nick.”

“How d-d-did you get in?”

“The maid.”

“God-d-d-damn m-m-maid. T-t-took three calls.”

Addis slowly faced Jordan. Margaret’s bodyguard did not lower the gun in his hand.

“Margaret likes hot c-c-c-compresses after she speaks. Smaller towels. We n-n-needed smaller towels. Took three calls to get them.”

Addis wondered what sort of gun it was. He knew nothing about weapons. He could not even identify the gun that Dunne had placed in the glove compartment, the gun that he had dropped, the gun that he had watched sink into the muddy night water of the canal.

“What do you w-w-want?” Jordan asked.

“To talk, Lem. You can put the gun down, can’t you?”

“About what?”

“Things.”

“‘Things’ can mean lots of d-d-d-ifferent th-things.”

“Guess that’s right. I’m going to take a seat, okay?” Addis sat on a sofa. Jordan let his arm drop. He did not holster the gun.

“So what things?” he asked.

Addis reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out two pieces of paper. He held one up.

“White House log. You were in the West Wing after I … after we were chased off the parkway.”

“Y-y-yeah?”

“Lem, can you tell me why you were there?”

“Picking up a b-b-box of books. And some stuff for J-j-jack.”

“At”-Addis looked at the page—“9:47 at night.”

“G-g-go ask the Marine at the d-d-desk. He saw me with the box.”

“At 10:38. Almost an hour to pick up a box.”

“Guess I spoke to a few guys.”

“I saw you last night, Lem. I saw you standing there. At the canal.”

I think it was you. But let’s see.

Jordan said nothing. The gun remained in his hand.

“Then afterward someone took a file from my office.”

Show me something, dammit.

Jordan’s expression did not change. He stared at Addis.

“Blue Ridge records. Some from Tracy Griffith, the wife of Harris Griffith. You know who he is—or was?”

Can he keep this up? He’s not denying anything.

Jordan did not blink.

“Did you kill Harris Griffith, Lem?”

His mouth was tight. Addis stood up. The hand holding the gun clenched.

“Did you, Lem? Because he wanted to blackmail Margaret?”

Jordan shifted his feet.

“Who knows? Does Margaret?”

Jordan bit his lower lip.

Come on, Lem. Jesus, come on.

“Does M. T. know? Did she tell you about Griffith? Did she or Margaret send you to New Orleans?”

Please, don’t let it be M. T. Please.