“Is it possible he managed to get back to his room but didn’t leave again on foot?” Nick asked.

“What do you mean?”

“He could’ve been taken out in a laundry cart, for instance. I saw that in a movie once.”

“So you’re saying someone came in here, tied him up, tossed him in a laundry cart and wheeled him out without anyone seeing a thing?”

“Could’ve happened.”

“We can’t even prove that he came into the hotel after they dropped him off. In this fictional scenario of yours, did Julian go willingly? Did he just hop into the laundry cart and say, ‘Tie me up and take me for a ride’?”

“Of course not.”

“So then where’s the struggle?” She gestured to the immaculate room. “Wouldn’t a lamp be toppled or the bed covers rumpled or something disturbed?”

“Not if the attacker had a gun pointed at Julian. He’d do whatever he was told to stay alive.”

Sam hated to concede the point. “That’s possible. A gun would explain the lack of struggle.”

Nick’s grin lit up his face. “See, I’m a natural.”

“You’re still a rookie, though.”

“So then teach me, master.”

Hands on her hips, Sam surveyed the room, trying to imagine how it had gone down. “I’d love to have the background check the administration must’ve done on Julian.”

Nick reached for his cell phone.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting it for you.”

She watched in silent amazement as he called the White House deputy chief of staff at home and requested a copy of the vetting document on Julian Sinclair.

“He’s emailing it to you,” Nick said when he hung up. He looked up to find her staring at him. “What? We play racquetball together. He’s a friend.”

“Who isn’t your friend?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Nope. You might be pretty useful to have around, rookie.”

“Is that your ass-backward way of saying thank you?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of some way to thank you—but not until we’re off duty.”

His eyes went hot with lust.

“Don’t even think about it.” As Sam took a step back from him her cell phone rang.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Jeannie McBride said. “I went through two years’ worth of financials on all the principal players. The only interesting thing I found was a ten thousand-dollar wire transfer from Diandra Sinclair’s personal account to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Owned by whom?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. The bank is closed right now, but I’ve left messages. I also tagged the Cayman police to make them aware of our investigation.”

“Good work, Jeannie. Go on home. We can pick this up in the morning.”

“It’s something anyway.”

“Absolutely. I appreciate you staying late. Any sign of Preston Sinclair?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Thanks again, Jeannie.”

“Have a good night, L.T.”