I could almost taste the desert grit in my mouth when I hung up. McCord had always been a stand-up guy; he was a legitimate hero. It hurt a little seeing him made small. Whatever was taking place inside the White House, they were getting ready to play rough.

Howie had plunked down in my dining room chair. “Well, that was weird,” I said. “That was McCord trying to get me off the story. They’re trying to protect something.”

“Or someone,” Howie corrected. “It’s all the same. This is the eighth administration I’ve covered, starting with Reagan. I’ve been flattered and promised and threatened and lied to, I’ve been offered bribes, I’ve been accused of treason. Once I was even seduced.” He smiled at that memory and tapped his index finger on his chest. “Yeah, that’s right, I was seduced.”

“Hey,” I agreed, tossing my hands palms up, “why not?”

“Damn straight. But I always knew what they wanted. This one…” He frowned. “The first thing any reporter wants to know is why have I earned this attention? What does this person want from me?”

“Except the sex,” I pointed out.

“Except the sex,” he agreed. “You’ve written some good pieces about this, but we both know there have been more damaging stories out there. What is it about your stories that’s got the White House so upset?”

My incredible insight, perhaps? “No idea,” I said. And at that moment I didn’t.

Howie pushed himself up and adjusted his glasses. “Keep pecking away,” he said.

8

I pecked.

I downloaded my laundry list: my running compilation of notes, story ideas, little things that bothered me, all those passing thoughts that I’d told Cher to remember. I was looking for anything that might relate to Detroit. McCord’s phone call had rung my cowbell. Detroit was old news. Both Snopes and PolitiFact had ruled the story Incomplete. The rumors were still floating in cyberspace, but every big story spawned rumors. Six decades later, millions of people still believed the moon landing had been faked, the government was going to invade Texas, Barack Obama had been born in Kenya, and Melania Trump had been known in L.A. as Melvin Knauss before her sex change operation. No one paid too much attention to any of them. To me, at least, it looked like the Detroit story was in the rearview mirror. Whatever truth there was to it, the administration had successfully fended it off. So what was McCord afraid of?

Near the bottom of my list I found the name Martin Shaw, Detroit PD. It took me a few seconds to remember who he was; Shaw was the police officer Wrightman had singled out in his speech. I thought it was a little odd that there had been no follow-up story. Usually when the president mentions someone, the media rushes to tell that person’s story. It’s like the Wheel of Fortune landing on your name. Especially in this context. But this time, nada. There hadn’t been any follow-up stories.