“Chuck, save your money. I’m sixty-three, a little old to be tramping around strange cities with a range finder, hoping to find something the most sophisticated ballistic forensics techs in the world missed. It’s just not going to happen. I’m too old, they’re too good. It’s not for me and it’s a waste.”

“Gunny, I-”

“I just can’t do it. I don’t want you mad at me and I’m sorry for Carl, but I can’t go off again. I’m old. It’ll kill me, I know.”

“Okay, Gunny,” said Chuck. “I get it. No problem. Hey, I had to give it a try.”

“You’re a good man, Chuck.”

“Look, just do me the favor of saying you’ll keep a mind open to it. No pressure, but if you change your thinking, the check is still there. And if you need help of any sort, here’s my card, I’ll be there in a second. I’m still a lance corporal at heart.”

Swagger still made his plane, but just barely. He flew across America charged with melancholy at the way it had worked out. But he put it out of mind for a while, tried to get to sleep. Finally, after all the connections, he made it to Boise and went to his car in the lot. Another hour or so and then the day would be finished, at least.

He thought to call his wife to tell her he’d be home in a bit but was astonished to see his message light blinking.

Couldn’t hardly work the damned thing, but managed to figure out how to call up the “missed call” menu after a bit, and was stunned to see a Washington area code on the caller. Who in that town gave a damn about him? But then he realized there was one person, and he recognized the number from last year: it was Nick Memphis’s.

When the Seventh Floor calls, you have to go. It was J. Edgar’s rule, back when the floor was the fifth and the building was across and down Pennsylvania, but it still held. Nick was glad he’d worn a tie that day. He dipped into the washroom and gave his face a scrub, but the lines driven into his flesh by a week of twenty-hour days and a lot of flight and airport time weren’t helpful. He ran some water through his hair, toweled off, went out and found his jacket, and took the elevator up to seven for the director’s office.

He was waved through by the Big Guy’s secretary and two uniformed Joes who formed a security perimeter even this deep in the heart of the federal beast. He’d been in this office before, with its altar of flags, its glory wall summing up the director’s-this director’s-career, its shelves of unread books, its mementos and naval flourishes (the brass telescope!) and so forth. And he’d seen this view, which looked to the southeast over Pennsylvania and the Archives’ Grecian pretensions toward the dome of the Capitol, giving the room an absurd fake-movie quality, on the presumption that all offices in Washington had views of the Capitol, with its red-white-blue bunting flopping in wind jets.

But the director sat with two men, by dint of haberdashery alone-well-fitted blue suits with subtle striping; dark, shiny mahogany loafers affixed with the je-ne-sais-quoi languor of tassels; fresh, un-dry-cleaned red power ties-of a higher professional political ranking. Each face was smooth and ruddy (Botox? only a coroner would know for sure), each head of hair lush and vibrant, each profile taut, each body toned (hours per diem in the gym). It took a while, but Nick recognized the heartier of the men as a congressman from out west somewhere; the other guy had lawyer or prominent lobbyist written in his flesh.

“Nick, sorry to interrupt,” said the director, “but I wanted to get these two interested parties a little shot of face time with our lead guy on Sniper.”

“Nick,” said the congressman, rising, hand out, “Jack Ridings, Wyoming, thanks so much for giving us a few,” and the other quickly fell into line, IDing himself behind the well-turned-out presentation as Bill Fedders, no affiliation but by implication powerful affiliation.

“Nick’s one of our heroes,” the director said. “He still limps a little because he was wounded in a gunfight while busting up that armored car robbery in Bristol, Tennessee, last year. How’s the leg, Nick?”

“Well, my basketball days are over, but I can still jog and ride a bike, so it’s a fair trade. I never could hit a jumper anyway.”

“Nick, can you catch the guys up? Jack’s the representative for T. T. Constable’s western holdings and Bill’s T. T.’s private attorney, and Mr. Constable-”

“ ‘Tom’ is what we all call him,” said the slicker of the two, with a conspiratorial warmth, as if he were letting them in on some inside skinny. “He just came up with the ‘T. T.’ for publicity purposes. The man is insatiable.”

“Tom, then,” said the director. “Tom is very concerned with the progress in his ex-wife’s death.”

“Sure,” said Nick. “No problem. Most of it’s been in the papers.”

So, this was a private confab with the forces of Constable? Constable, wealthy beyond measure, the famous star’s equally famous hubby for eight years, fingers in all the pies there were-Constable was big-footing it. He needed private assurances that this thing was getting full attention from the Bureau-as if something this insanely high-profile wouldn’t of its own accord-and insisting on a little inside dope. That was fine, that was okay, that was the way the town worked, and if you were going to have a career in the town, you had to play by its rules.

The rules were: Information is power. But power is also power. Power must be not so much obeyed as acquiesced to, massaged, assured. The key to all transactions was the congressman, who got his big donors and supporters private audiences with linchpin feds. It had always been that way, it would always be that way. Now Tom Constable-T. T. in the papers, Tom only to friends and intimates-wanted to be in the loop. In a way, Nick was surprised it had taken so long. Constable had a yen for attention himself, which may be why he married Joan in the first place, and he’d been front and center on all the Sunday talkers about the tragedy of his second wife, how much she’d given, what a crime it was that this tragedy took her, how it was as if she hadn’t survived the war she had tried so hard to stop. Of course Jack and Mitzi and the poor funnyman Mitch more or less disappeared during this orgy of calamity, but again, that was the way of the big foot. Nobody ever said it was fair. It wasn’t supposed to be fair. The process, in fact, in the language of engineers, was operating as designed.

Nick quickly ran through the actions his investigation had taken and tried not to overplay his hand. The director supplied that ingredient.

“See how fast Nick cut to the heart of it. He knew exactly where to go to smoke this guy out and it took, what, Nick, less than three days?”

“We didn’t begin to look at the pattern until after the second incident,” said Nick, “and we became lead agency. But we had the name one day after the third incident, went public with it the second day, and had our man early in the morning on the third, though for all of us involved, there was no breakdown by days. Nobody went home, we worked straight. It was great staff work. My people really did it. I just tried to stay out of the way.”

“I’m sure Nick is being modest,” said the congressman.

“I think I speak for Tom when I say the Bureau’s actions have been extraordinary,” said Bill. “Really fine work. Now what happens?”

“Well,” said Nick, “as the defendant is dead, obviously there won’t be any trial. What we do, we assemble the case just as if he’d survived, and we’ll issue a report. When we do that, we’ll officially declare the case closed. Chicago, New York, and Ohio will then declare their cases closed. And then-well, that’s it.”

“What happens if someone comes along,” asked the congressman, “and says, ‘Hey, you got it wrong, it was actually Freemasons from the Vatican and the Uzbeki mafia that did it?’ That could happen. And then it’s all dragged out again. I think Tom’s a little worried about Joan’s life becoming some kind of cash cow for cranks.”