"So what happened six months ago?" Sampson asked. The question was more rhetorical than anything, since we both knew the answer.

That's when the killing started.

In which case – where were the rest of Nicholson's disks?

AFTER WORK, I picked up some Thai food on Seventh and brought it to Bree at the hospital. It wasn't the kind of dinner date she deserved, but anything besides Swiss steak and Jell-O from the cafeteria had to be a big improvement.

It looked like she had a whole mobile-office thing going on, with her laptop and a little printer and files spread out on the counter in the back. The laptop was open to Web MD, and she was busily taking notes when I came in.

"Who ordered the panang curry and pad thai?" I called from the doorway.

"That would be me," Bree said.

She picked her way past all the equipment and gave me a kiss hello.

"How's our girl been doing?" I asked.

"Still fighting. She's amazing; she really is."

Nana looked a little more peaceful, maybe, but otherwise seemed about the same. Dr. Englefield had already warned us not to get too invested in the minutiae. You could drive yourself crazy scrutinizing every little tic and twitch, when the important thing was to keep showing up and never lose hope.

While I unpacked the food, Bree caught me up on the day. Englefield wanted to keep Nana on beta blockers for the time being. Her heart was still weak, but it was steady, for what that was worth. And they were going to take the dialysis down to three times a day.

"There's a new resident, Dr. Abingdon, you should talk to about that," Bree said. "I've got her number right here."

I traded a plate of food and a bottle of water for it. "You're doing too much," I told Bree.

"This is the closest thing I've ever had to a real family," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

I did. Bree's mother died when she was five, and her father never expressed much interest in his children after that. She'd been raised by a series of cousins more than anything, and when she left home at seventeen, she never looked back.

"All the same," I told her, "you can't take off from work indefinitely."

"Sweetie, listen to me. I hate that this is happening. There's nothing good about it. But as long as this is the deal, then I am right where I want to be. End of story, okay? I'm fine with it."

She twirled up a forkful of rice noodles and popped them into her mouth, with a grin I hadn't seen in a while. "Besides, what are they going to do at work, replace me? I'm too good for that."

I couldn't argue there.

Honestly, I'm not sure I could have done everything Bree was doing. Maybe I'm not that generous. But I do know that she made me feel lucky, and incredibly grateful. There was never going to be enough I could do to thank her for this, but Bree didn't seem to want any payback.

We spent the rest of the evening with Nana, reading out loud from Another Country, an old favorite of hers. Then, around ten o'clock, we kissed her good night, and for the first time since this had happened, I went home to sleep in my own bed. Right next to Bree, where I belonged.

WHEN NED MAHONEY called me the next day and said I should meet him at the Hirshhorn sculpture garden, I didn't question it for a single moment. I left the office right away and marched over there.

The beat goes on. In double time. Now what does Ned want? What has he found out?

He was waiting on one of the low cement walls when I came down the ramp from the Mall side. Before I even reached him, he was up and walking – and when I did come alongside, he started briefing me without so much as a hello. I knew Ned well enough to understand when I should just shut up and listen.

Apparently, the Bureau had already secured an administrative subpoena to get a look at Tony Nicholson's overseas bank records. They'd gotten a whole list of deposits, originating accounts, and names attached to those accounts, through something called the Swift program.

Swift stood for the Society of Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunications. It's a global cooperative based in Belgium that tracks something on the order of six trillion transactions every day. The database doesn't include routine banking – they don't necessarily know when I go to the ATM – but just about everything else is in there. The program was under all kinds of legal scrutiny, since it had come out that the US government was using it to track terror cells, post 9/11. Whatever the obstacles, though, someone at the Bureau had gotten around them.

"If this were my case, which it isn't, I'd follow the numbers," Mahoney said, still peppering me with information. "I would start with the biggest depositors into Nicholson's account and work my way down from there. I don't know how much time you'll have, though, Alex. This thing is unbelievably hot. Something is not right here, in a big way."

"Isn't the Bureau already on it? They have to be, right?"

It was the first question I'd asked in five minutes of nonstop talk. Ned was as manic as I'd ever seen him, which is saying a lot, since he's usually a buzz saw on Red Bull.

"Honestly, I don't know," he said with a shrug. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and we started another lap around the sunken garden.

"Something's sure up, Alex. Here's an example. I don't understand it, but the whole case has been moved out to the Charlottesville Resident Agency, which is a satellite. They'll work with Richmond, I guess."

"Moved? That doesn't make any sense. Why would they do that?"

I knew from past experience that the Bureau didn't swap cases around midstream on a whim. It almost never happened. They might cobble a task force between offices to cover a wider area, but nothing like this.

"Word came down from the deputy director's office yesterday – and they transferred the files overnight. I don't know who the new SAC is, or if there even is one. Nobody'll talk to me about this case. As far as they're all concerned, I'm just a guy running a lot of field agents. I shouldn't even be on this anymore. I definitely shouldn't be here."

"Maybe they're trying to tell you something," I said, but he ignored the joke. It was pretty lame, anyway. I just wanted to calm Ned down a little if I could. I wanted him to speak slowly enough that I could follow.

He stopped by the big Rodin in the garden, took my hand, and shook it in an oddly formal way. "I've got to go," he said.

"Mahoney, you're freaking me out a little here -"

"See what you can get done. I'll find out what I can, but don't depend on the Bureau in the meantime. For anything. Do you understand?"

"No, Ned, I don't. What about this bank list you were just talking about?"

He was already walking away, up the stone stairs toward Jefferson Drive.

"Don't know what you mean," he said over his shoulder, but he was patting his coat pocket when he said it.

I waited for him to leave, then checked my pocket. There, along with my keys, was a black-and-silver thumb drive.