“I could tell by the tongue hanging out of your face, but she’s too scary and experienced for an innocent boy like you. She’d chew you up and spit you out.”

“And that would be bad how exactly?”

“Pardon me while I get busy poking out my mind’s eye.”

Chapter 18

Gonzo called as they made their way toward the Justice Department on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“What’ve you got?” Sam asked.

“Nothing so far at the cabin, but I did that run you asked for on Robert O’Connor. Sixty-five years old, lives in Mechanicsville with his wife Sally, age sixty-three. They have three grown children—Sarah, forty, Thomas, thirty-six and Michael, thirty-four. Five grandchildren.”

“Son of a bitch,” Sam muttered. “They lied to me.”

“Do you want me to do some more digging?”

“No, that’s okay. Were you able to get pictures of the kids?”

“Yeah, I shot them to your e-mail.”

“Thanks, Gonzo. Let me know if you turn up anything at the cabin.”

“It’s slow going. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

“Who lied to you?” Freddie asked when she had ended the call.

“O’Connor’s parents.” She explained about the photo she had found at the cabin. “I think John had a son they swept under the rug. I’m going to Chicago tomorrow to find out.”

“Want me to tag along?”

“No, I can take this one alone. I need you to confirm the info we got from Davenport and Svendsen about the people they were with the night of the murder. I’d also like you to check security at both their buildings. See if you can catch them coming home that night—or more importantly, going back out.”

“Got it,” he said, making notes. “I would’ve done that run you had Gonzo do.”

“Don’t pout, Freddie. An investigation of this magnitude requires we make use of all available resources.”

After navigating building security and handing over their weapons—something that always left Sam feeling twitchy—she and Freddie were escorted to Jordan’s office. As special assistant attorney general, he sat right next door to the attorney general himself. Jordan was tall with an athletic build, short blond hair that looked like it would be wildly curly if left to grow and sharp blue eyes. He wore a dark pinstriped suit that had clearly been cut just for him. Nothing off-the-rack for this guy, Sam thought, as she noted his almost startling resemblance to John O’Connor. Apparently, the late senator wasn’t the only one who went for a “type.”

“Detectives,” he said, standing to shake their hands. He gestured for them to make use of the chairs in front of his desk. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re aware that your wife had a long-term relationship with Senator O’Connor?”

“I am.”

“Did she ever talk to you about him?”