“Honestly, my client doesn’t trust the people who are holding him—or, frankly, the integrity of their investigation. One more thing—he wants to make sure his cooperation doesn’t go unnoticed.”

I couldn’t help a little smile. How weird, to suddenly be on the same side of the fence as Tony Nicholson, ah, Anthony. It sounded like he was getting as paranoid as I was—and maybe for good reason.

“Twenty-twenty K Street, fourth floor?” I asked, printing it off the screen.

“Very good, Detective Cross. Make it between one thirty and two o’clock. I’ll be gone after that.”

“I’ll see you at one thirty,” I said, and hung up on Lawyer Miller before he could hang up on me.

Chapter 84

IT DIDN’T TAKE long to snag the key from Nicholson’s attorney at Kendall and Burke, and not much longer than that to get in and out of the Exeter Bank. It was as if the lawyer, Noah Miller, and the bank manager, Ms. Currie, were competing to see who could get me out of their lives faster. Fine with me.

It turned out that the only thing in the new deposit box was a single, unmarked disk, which was about what I’d expected. I drove straight back to the Daly Building with it and called Sampson on my way. He was already there, so it was no problem to meet as soon as I arrived with the disk.

In fact, the big man was sitting with his feet up, fooling around on a laptop, when I came into my office.

“Did you know Zeus was also called the Cloud Gatherer?” he said. “His symbols are the thunderbolt, eagle, bull, and oak. Oh, and he was a pederast too. Rumored to be.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “Get your shoes off my desk and slide this in.”

I handed him the disk and closed the door behind me.

“What is it?” Sampson asked.

“Tony Nicholson thinks it’s his life insurance.”

Seconds later, the video started playing.

Right away, I recognized the bedroom from the carriage barn apartment at Nicholson’s club. It looked the same except for some clean sheets on the bed and maybe a few more knickknacks.

A time signature at the bottom of the screen put it at 1:30 a.m. on July 20 of the previous summer.

“Can those signature numbers be faked?” I asked Sampson.

“No doubt. Why? Do you think Nicholson is screwing with you?”

“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know yet.”

After about thirty seconds, the image hiccupped, and the time jumped ahead to 2:17 a.m.

Now there was a girl on the bed, wearing nothing but black lace panties. She was blond and petite, with black cuffs on her wrists that were strapped to the posts over her head. Her legs were spread open as wide as humanly possible.

There was no sound, but the way she was moving looked more alluring than scared or defensive to me. Still, I had a fierce knot in my stomach. Whatever this was, I didn’t think I wanted to see it proceed.