I learned that Jenny had come to the hospital three times during the day and a half I was sedated, but when the drugs finally wore off and I opened my eyes, it was Frankie B. sitting next to my bed. He put down the newspaper he was reading. “Welcome back,” he boomed. “Have a nice trip?”

“Nice place to visit,” I managed to get out. The words coming out of my mouth didn’t sound too much like the words I was forming in my mind.

Frankie filled in the details: The man murdered in the garage had been identified as Elijah Amram. His cause of death was officially blunt trauma, unofficially the rear gate of a Chevy Tahoe. Amram had been linked to the Detroit house, but law enforcement was describing him as a “facilitator” rather than a participant in the Lincoln Tunnel attack. They were hinting that evidence existed connecting him to Terror Inc., as Homeland Security was now referring to the murky coalition of terrorist organizations, but for “security reasons” that would affect “ongoing investigations,” they could not release it.

It hurt when I smiled. How could I have injured my cheekbones? “Total bullshit,” I said.

Frankie B. threw up his hands defensively. “Hey, don’t blame me. I only know what I write in the papers.” The driver of the van was a man named José Peña Moncada, a Mexican national. After surviving the crash, Moncada had limped back up to the sixth level, leaving a trail of blood. The door to the roof had been locked, trapping him there. Rather than surrendering, he had elected to shoot it out with D.C. cops, which, as Frankie B. colorfully pointed out, proved to be a poor decision. “He ended up with more holes in him than the plot of Godfather 3.” His motive hadn’t been determined …

“Drugs,” I said. “That’s what he told me. The cartel was looking for him.”

Frankie B. shrugged. “Says you.” His motive hadn’t been determined, he repeated, then continued, nor was it known how Moncada had tracked Amram to that garage. “That’s why they want to talk to you,” he said casually. “Howie said for me to tell you not to talk to anybody without a lawyer sitting on your lap.”

That made sense. I asked him to hand me my tablet. I wanted to start making notes as soon as the symphony playing in my head quieted down.

He didn’t move. “That’s probably not the best idea,” he said. “Don’t put anything down on paper. And don’t say anything to anybody, even Jenny.” He hesitated there and avoided my eyes.

“What?” It was a passive question, as in, What’s the problem?

“It’s not all good news,” he joked. “They’ve been asking us a lot of questions about you too. They want to know what you were doing meeting a terrorist.”

“What?” An active question, as in, Are you fucking kidding me? “I told you, he wasn’t…”

Frankie held up his hands as a barrier. “Hey! Hey! I’m one of the good guys, remember. I’m just telling you, that’s the way they’re selling it.” He scribbled a headline in the air: “Most Wanted Terrorist Killed Meeting Secretly with Sympathetic Journalist.”