What Maggie did not know was that Lincoln Moss was doing exactly what she envisioned, but instead of giving her the single-digit salute, he was occupied putting his fist through the kitchen wall next to the bar stool he was sitting on. The cook, who had just served him his breakfast, ran for cover as if her life depended on it, squealing prayers of mercy.

A ten-minute rant, and after playing Maggie’s message four more times, Moss stomped his way to the second floor, where he kept a compact office. Just as he sat down at the computer, the office phone rang. He blinked at the caller ID. The White House. He chewed on his lip for a moment before he picked up the receiver and announced himself in what he hoped was a businesslike voice, and then he listened.

“Mr. Moss, this is Darrel Honeycutt from the New York Post. I’m calling you from the press-room at the White House to ask why you were not present at the meeting that was suddenly called at the White House this morning. Would you care to give me a comment? If not, I’ll have to run with the wild speculation that’s going on here.”

Moss struggled to find just the right folksy tone. “Now, Darrel, you and the rest of the press know I never make comments. Today is no different. In the end, you guys print pretty much what you please anyway. Have a good day.”

Moss would have put his fist through the computer screen, but his knuckles were already raw and bleeding. He thought about the phone call then, playing it over and over in his mind. Suddenly called meeting. For what? Who was there? He wished he had someone to call to ask, but there was no one. At least no one who would give him that kind of information.

Moss stewed and fretted for another hour before he clicked on his computer address book for the detective agency he’d used to try to find Amalie. There were over a dozen listed, none of them worth the name on the door except for one called Universal Privacy and a man named Gunter Wolf. Wolf was discreet. In fact, Wolf didn’t talk at all, he just listened. He didn’t take notes either. That’s one of the reasons Moss liked him. What Moss didn’t like were his enormous fees, but he paid them without a whimper.

“This is Lincoln Moss, Mr. Wolf. We need to talk. I have a rush job for you. Are you available to meet me in thirty minutes at the Knife and Fork?” Wolf assured Moss that he would be at the greasy diner at the appointed time. “Bring your checkbook.” Like Moss didn’t know that already.