“Ms. Cooke, I’m guessing this is not a sympathy call regarding the verdict against the First Gentleman. Whatever the reason, is it important?”

I wait a beat. “Was Eva Clarke important?”

A long pause. Then he says, his voice low and intense: “What are you after, Ms. Cooke?”

“I’m after the truth. Just like Garrett Wilson was.”

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Prove it. Meet me. I’m in DC and I’d be happy to come to your house. I have the address right here. Or I’ll come to the White House—”

“Don’t be stupid. Meet me at Montrose Park near Georgetown in thirty minutes.”

“Where in Montrose Park? You need to be more specific.”

“The Rittenhouse memorial. There’s a bench nearby.”

He sounds worried. Good.

He should be.

CHAPTER
136

Montrose Park, Washington, DC

I leave my laptop in my car for safekeeping and catch an Uber to the edge of the park on R Street. I start looking for the landmark that I googled on the way, the Sarah Rittenhouse Armillary Sphere—interlocking bronze circles of the celestial spheres on a marble base.

It’s a cool night, but I’m hot; my adrenaline is burning. A guy jogs past with his dog, but other than that, the place is pretty much deserted. In the glow of the streetlights, I see neat gardens and lawns and paved trails surrounded by dark woods. I walk past the monument and down the stone path.

Maybe twenty yards in, I see a man on a bench. Lanky, balding, wearing a suit.

It’s him. The Gray Ghost.

Burton Pearce stands up as I get closer.

“You’re alone?”

“Just you and me, Mr. Pearce.”

“What’s in your backpack?”

I toss it to him. “Have a look.”

He catches it, barely. He seems distracted as he paws through the innocuous-looking contents, then he sets the pack on the bench. “Where’s your phone?”

I pull it out of my back pocket and waggle it. “Want me to turn it off?”

“I do.”

I power it down right in front of him and return it to my back pocket. I step up close and look him in the eye. “Go ahead, search me. See if I’m wearing a wire.”

He blinks and turns away a second. Then he sits down.

“Tell me about Eva Clarke,” I say.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “It was twenty years ago and consensual.”

“That’s not what Eva says, either now or then. I think you saw Cole Wright carry her upstairs and spotted an opportunity. That seems to be your pattern.