Morris took an manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed it to Condor. "Take a look."

Condor opened the flap and slid out two eight-by-ten glossies. Full color. A man and a woman. Very dead. Blood and other assorted gore sprayed across the wall and bed.

"Senator Jacobson," Morris supplied. "And his lover."

Condor studied the photos. "A professional job?"

"It appears so."

"Powers?"

"Possibly."

"Who ordered the hit?"

"I don't know. Maybe nobody."

Morris had his attention now. "I don't follow."

Morris sipped the coffee, made a sound of appreciation and set down the over-size cup. "There's a connection. Powers and the woman were once involved."

"Could be a coincidence." Condor dropped the photographs into the envelope.

"True. But there's more. Russell's dead. A blow to the back of the head, the kidneys and larynx. Definitely professional."

"Powers?" Morris lifted a shoulder. "Shit." Condor looked away, then back. "What's the connection?"

"Woman and Russell were also once…involved."

Condor frowned. "You think this is personal?"

"Yes. But we need to know for sure. A United States senator is dead. So is one of our division chiefs. If it was a hit, we have to know who ordered it. If it wasn't, and Powers was involved, we have a problem to be taken care of."

"What do you want from me?"

"Find him. Find out what we need to know. If need be, explain the Agency's position to him." He met Condor's gaze evenly. "Make certain he understands."

Condor nodded. "Whereabouts?"

"Unknown."

"Any specific instructions?"

"Your choice. Keep it low key."

"Of course." Condor stood. "By the way, I met with your friend, Luke Dallas."

"And?"

"I like him. Writes a hell of a book."

"He's a good guy."

"Can he be trusted?"

"I think so." Morris took a sip of his coffee. "You going to talk to him?"

"Maybe." Condor tossed the envelope onto the table. "I'll be in touch."

Sunlight spilled through the breakfast nook's bay window, falling over the antique oak farmer's table, warming its weathered top. The January day was brilliant but cold; the sky a postcard-perfect blue.

Kate sat at the table, one leg curled under her, hands curved around a mug of freshly brewed coffee. She brought the mug to her lips but didn't sip. Instead, she breathed deeply, enjoying the aroma almost as much as she would her first taste.

The beans were African, from the Gold Coast region. The roast was dark, the brew strong. The flavor would be bold, bright and complex. If it lived up to the roaster's claim.

She tasted, paused and tasted again. Smooth as well, she decided. She would add it to The Uncommon Bean's menu.

"Morning, gorgeous." Richard came into the kitchen, still straightening his tie. He crossed to her and she lifted her face for a kiss, then restraightened the knot of his tie, patting it when she had finished. "There. Completely presentable now."

He smiled. "I hate ties. A damn nuisance, I say."

"Poor baby."

"I'll bet our old friend Luke doesn't wear one of these boa constrictors." He went to the carafe and poured himself a cup of coffee, then popped a couple pieces of seven-grain bread into the toaster. "I went into the wrong line of work. I should have chosen something artsy-fartsy. Like writing."

Kate ignored his sarcasm and took another swallow of her coffee. She sighed with pleasure. "There's nothing quite as wonderful as a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning." She glanced over at him. "I'm trying out a new bean. Tell me what you think."

He took a sip. "It's good."

"Just good?"

"Really good?"

"How would you describe it?"

"Hot. Strong." He sipped again. "Tastes like… coffee."

She wagged her spoon at him in a mock reprimand. "Tomorrow you're getting instant."

"Okay." He laughed at her obvious dismay. "Sorry, sweetheart, I'm just not a coffee connoisseur, it all tastes about the same to me."

He carried his toast and cup to the table and sat across from her. Kate slid him the sports section of the Times Picayune.

"I read in the money section that Starbucks coffee is thinking of moving into New Orleans in a big way." She drew her eyebrows together in concern. "I hope they stay on that side of the lake. I don't need any more competition for this community's coffee dollar."

"How are things at the nuthouse?" he asked, unfolding the paper.

"Nuthouse?"

"The Bean."

"I don't know why you insist on calling the The Uncommon Bean a nuthouse. We're all quite sane."

He spread a bit of whole fruit jam on his toast. "You're sane," he corrected. "I'm not nearly so confident of that crew you have working for you."

She laughed. Her crew was a bit unconventional; she couldn't deny that. "A coffeehouse is not a law office."

"No joke."

"My customers expect a bit of creative license. Besides, they're not nuts, they're characters. There's a difference."

"If you say so."

"I do." Kate poured herself a bowl of muesli, sprinkled on some fresh berries, then covered it with half 'n' half. "I also say you're a stuffed shirt and need to loosen up."

"I'm sure my clients would love that. Being a stuffed shirt is a good thing for lawyers. Inspires trust." He cocked an eyebrow as she dug into her cereal. "Cream?"

"Mmm." She licked her spoon, teasing him. "What's the matter? Jealous?"

"Not at all."

"Liar."

Richard was spartan in his tastes; she was excessive. He worked out religiously, ate low fat and whole grain and still had to fight acquiring a paunch. Kate ate sweets and fats and kept her workouts confined to long brisk walks along the lakefront-and still managed to remain slim and taut, her blood pressure and cholesterol ridiculously low.

It irritated him no end and he continually warned her that her life-style would catch up with her, that middle age would hit and she would have to suffer right along with the rest of the world. Kate laughed off his warnings. She came from a long line of people with uncommonly healthy hearts and in-the-cellar cholesterol and blood pressure. And if genetics failed her and Richard's predictions came true, well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

"Poor Richard. Want just a tiny taste?"

He eyed her bowl longingly, then shook his head. "I'm perfectly content with my toast."

"I can tell." She grinned, took another bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee. "I almost forgot. Last night you got in so late from your meeting, I didn't get a chance to tell you. Ellen called." He looked up from the sports page, obviously not following. "Ellen, from Citywide. It seems we get an A plus." Kate laughed. "We were the first couple in our group to get all our paperwork in."

"The first?" His lips twitched. "Leave it to us, type A overachievers."

She pushed her hair behind her ear, ignoring his sarcasm. "Determined. Enthusiastic. No way am I going to miss an opportunity due to procrastination."

"I'm just glad it's done."

Kate agreed. The adoption program's paperwork had been grueling. It seemed there had been a form that covered every aspect of their life: their family's history, their personal health, their financial and educational backgrounds. They'd even had to get fingerprinted and have a police background check done.

But by far the most difficult part of the packet to complete had been the personal profiles. The questions had been probing, requiring each of them to delve into their most intimate thoughts and feelings-about their marriage, about adoption and parenting.

They had been asked to search their hearts and souls, then spill their guts on paper. All the while knowing that a potential birth mother would read what they had written-knowing the words they chose would influence whether that birth mother would select them to parent her child.