Before we got back on the highway, I asked Sampson to pull over at an Exxon station near Mara Kelly’s apartment. I bought a little Nokia prepaid phone for thirty-nine dollars and used it to dial the number I’d gotten the other day.

Wylie Rechler answered on the first ring. “This is Jenna. Talk to me.”

“It’s Detective Alex Cross, Jenna. We met the other day out in Friendship Heights,” I said. “Are you ready to jump into this thing?”

I heard a melodramatic little gasp on the other end. “Honey, I was ready the last time we chatted. What have you got for me now?”

“Ever heard the name Tony Nicholson?”

“I don’t think so. No, definitely not. Should I have?”

“He’s the one with the little black book you’d love to get your hands on, not that any of us ever will. Until eleven o’clock this morning, he was in federal custody. Now he’s out on bail, and if I had to guess, he’s on his way out of the country. With the little black book.”

“What does this mean for me?”

“It could mean a lot, Jenna. If you help me out. I want you to put a bug in Sam Pinkerton’s ear at the Post,” I said. “Could you do that?”

“I suppose I could.” She paused, and then her voice dropped. “Sam covers the White House. You know that, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh Jesus, I’m wet—excuse my French. Okay, so what’s Mr. Pinkerton going to have for me when I call? If I call.”

I told Jenna the truth. “Maybe nothing right away. But you two might make a pretty good team on this one. You’ll have all the right angles covered.”

“I think I’m in love with you, Detective.”

“That’s another thing,” I said. “Sam pretty much hates my guts. You’ll probably get a lot further with him if you don’t happen to mention my name.”

As I hung up, Sampson was giving me a once-over from the driver’s seat. “I thought Sam Pinkerton was a friend of yours.”

“He is.” I pocketed the new phone next to my old one. “I’m just trying to keep it that way.”

Chapter 87

I HAD ONE more place to be that afternoon, and I asked Sampson to drop me off.

One of Washington’s favorite sons, and one of my favorite people too, Hilton Felton, had died a while back, way too young at the age of sixty. I’d spent countless nights listening to Hilton play at Kinkead’s in Foggy Bottom, where he’d been the house pianist since 1993. That’s where they were having a memorial concert for him.

Something like a hundred and fifty people squeezed in to celebrate Hilton’s life, and, of course, hear some great music from his friends. It was all very beautiful and relaxed and wonderful in its own way. The music could only have been better if Hilton had been there to play it himself.

When Andrew White got up and played one of Hilton’s original compositions, it made me feel incredibly lucky to have known the man behind that music, but also deeply sorry to know that I’d never hear him play it again in the way that only Hilton could.