He somehow managed to contain the hot blast of rage that cut through him at the implication that he could have had something to do with the death of the one he loved above all others—except for Laine, of course. “I was right here with my wife. We had friends over, played some bridge and went to bed around eleven or so.”

She seemed satisfied with his answer and turned next to Terry. “Mr. O’Connor?”

“I was…ah…with a friend.”

Terry’s womanizing had gotten completely out of hand since a DUI derailed his political aspirations weeks before he was supposed to declare his candidacy for the Senate. It made Graham sick that Terry was no closer to settling down and having a family at forty-two than he had been at twenty-two.

“I’ll need a name and number,” the detective said.

Terry’s cheeks turned bright red, and Graham knew what was coming next. “I…ah…”

“He doesn’t know her name,” Graham said, casting a disgusted look at his son.

“I can find out,” Terry said quickly.

“That’d be a good idea,” the detective said.

“It’s not a coincidence, is it, that this happened on the eve of the vote?” Graham said.

“We’re not ruling anything out,” the detective said.

“Check Minority Leader Stenhouse,” Graham said. “He hates my guts and would begrudge my son any kind of success.”

“Why does he hate you?” she asked.

“They were bitter rivals for decades,” Nick told her. “Stenhouse has done everything he could to block the immigration bill, but it was going to pass anyway.”

“Take a good look at him,” Graham said, his chest tight with rage and his voice breaking. “He’s capable of anything. Taking my son from me would give him great joy.”

“Can you think of anyone else?” she asked. “Anyone who might’ve tangled with your son, either on a personal or professional level?”

Graham shook his head. “Everyone loved John, but I’ll think about it and let you know if anyone comes to mind.”

Nick stepped forward to embrace him.

Graham wrapped his arms around the young man he loved like a son. “Find out who did this, Nick. Find out.”

“I will. I promise.”

As Nick and Sam walked away, Graham noted the hunched shoulders of his son’s closest friend and trusted aide. To Terry he said, “Get the name of your bimbo, and get it now. Don’t show your face around here again until you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

On the way back to Washington, Nick checked his BlackBerry and read through the statement his office had drafted.