There were two possibilities: Mumfries was an honest sleazeball, or he was a dishonest sleazeball. Maybe he didn’t know that the plan to run an off-the-books hit team had led to the murder of Bob Hanover. Or perhaps he was aware of the ripples and now was encouraging Grayton—depending on Grayton—to run cleanup. Or maybe this was a Kelly and Grayton operation, with Kelly following Washington rules and keeping the bad news from his boss. Was it crazy to give Mumfries a chance to explain? To give Mumfries the opportunity to claim that he was merely a run-of-the-mill shitbag pol, not a murderous conspirator? If so, what then? Only Margaret would have to pay?

“You can decide.” But how much did he want to decide? To determine who would be the next President of the United States?

“I noticed you’re not beefing up security here after the attack at the Mayflower,” Addis said to Grayton. “Someone takes a shot at Margaret and you’re not sweating … . Think the President might be concerned about that? Or do you have reason to believe that the threat has been … neutralized?”

“What the fuck do you want, Nick?” Kelly asked with a sneer.

“Not to deal.”

Grayton jabbed a finger into Addis’s sternum. Addis jumped back with the pain. Grayton moved close to him. Addis breathed in his cologne.

“Let’s keep it simple,” Grayton said so only Addis could hear. “You turn and leave now, and you have a nice life ahead. Sure, there’s shit to deal with. But that’s what lawyers are for. And you got the best. You’ll get through it. Then you have book deals, TV appearances, job offers. Fuck, go teach at some overpriced college and grab all the peach-bottomed coeds you can find. Hop a flight to California, buy a convertible, and score in Hollywood. Yeah, L.A. bimbos. Or, be a master-of-the-universe at some investment house. But you push now, with your stories, her unconfirmed speculation, and …”

Do you know about the backpack?

“And what?” Addis asked. “One big happy game of make-believe?”

Grayton squinted at Addis and said nothing for a few seconds.

The sound of a decision being made.

“No, thank you,” Addis said. “I’d like to see what happens here when all the bullshit runs out.”

Grayton nodded at the Secret Service men. They moved closer to Addis.

Shit, they’re not going to let me leave, Addis thought.

Grayton looked at Kelly, and Mumfries’s chief of staff entered the conversation. “Nick,” he said. “We got a call from Metro. Unofficial, you know. Did some lab tests. Turns out—well, it’s just preliminary—Julia Lancette was all coked up—”

Fucking perfect.

Addis grabbed Kelly by the collar of his jacket. “You fuckers—”