Sampson and I caught up with the popular gossipist that afternoon at the Neiman Marcus store in Friendship Heights. Wylie was launching a new designer scent, whatever that means, also called Jenna Knows. With the smell of cheap perfume as thick in the air as it was, I kept thinking of it as “Jenna Nose” instead.

She was set up in the middle of the store, near the escalators. Pretty ladies in black smocks were spritzing passersby, while Jenna herself autographed bottles from a big pyramid of red-and-black boxes on a C-shaped counter.

When she saw our detective badges, she put a perfectly manicured hand up to her chest. “Oh, God! I’ve finally gone too far, haven’t I?” It got a good laugh from the crowd behind us.

“I was wondering if I could persuade you to take five,” I asked her. “It’s important.”

“Mais oui.” Wylie stood up with a little flourish. “Excuse me, ladies, but gossip awaits. The Metro Police know all. But—will they tell all?”

Some of the theatricality dropped off as soon as we were away from the crowd. “I’m not actually in any trouble here, am I?” she asked.

“Nothing like that,” Sampson said, and held the door for her out to Wisconsin Avenue. “We just need some help.”

We waited until we were in my car to go on. Then I just asked her point-blank. “I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about a sex club for heavy hitters? Out in Virginia? Place called Blacksmith Farms. We’re looking, first of all, for some verification.”

She’d been rustling inside a little red clutch purse, but now she stopped cold. “You mean it’s true?”

“I’m just wondering what you’ve heard. Names, stories, anything at all.”

“Nothing in a while,” she said, pulling out a lipstick. “Not enough to make a story I could go with. I figured it was—what?—a ridiculous suburban myth?”

“Aren’t you in the business of publishing rumors?” Sampson asked her.

“Honey, I’m in the business of being as accurate as I can be and not getting my ass sued. I learned that the hard way blogging on Condi Rice’s love life. And just for the record, there’s no such thing as an old rumor in Washington.”

“How do you mean that?” I asked.

“I mean you can’t swing a stick around here without hitting some investigative reporter looking to make a name for themselves. Rumors either turn into headlines real quick or they’re dead on arrival. When I didn’t hear any more about that one, I figured it was a dead end.”

She smiled happily and started reddening her lips in the rearview mirror. “Until now, anyway.”

“That’s another thing,” I said, catching her eye. “I need you to sit on this for a while.”

“Excuse me? You do know what I do for a living, don’t you?”

“And I assume you know what I do,” I said. “This is a murder investigation, Jenna, not a game. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”