JUST LIKE EVERY other escort we'd pulled in today, Lauren Inslee was slender, well-endowed, and absolutely gorgeous. She was a former model in New York and Miami, a graduate of Florida State University, an escort for men with a taste for perky cheerleader types. Nicholson obviously had a variety of tastes to satisfy, but his general aesthetic was "expensive."

"Katherine's dead, isn't she?" That was the first thing Lauren asked when I sat down with her. "Nobody will tell me anything. You want us to talk, but you people won't say a word about what happened."

"That's because we don't know, Lauren. That's why we're talking to you."

"Okay, but what do you think? I don't mean to be morbid. I just want to know. She was a friend of mine, another Florida girl. She was going to be a lawyer. She'd been accepted at Stetson, which is a really good school."

Lauren played with a paper napkin the whole time she spoke, tearing it into tiny pieces. A slice of the pizza we'd brought in sat untouched on a plate next to the torn shreds of napkin. I believed that all she wanted to hear was the truth. So I decided to give it to her.

"The police report says there's no indication that she packed a bag at her apartment. Given the amount of time it's been – yes, there's a good chance she's not coming back."

"Oh, God." The girl turned away, fighting tears, hugging herself tightly.

It was getting more depressing in here by the second. We were in one of the larger interview rooms, with graffiti burning right through the latest paint job on the walls and scorch marks on the floor from years of cigarette butts.

"Detective Pontano says that you mentioned something about a specific client at Blacksmith? And maybe Katherine. Lauren, tell me about the client."

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe. I mean – I know what Katherine told me. But that place was all rumors all the time."

I kept my voice even and as calming as possible. "What did she tell you, Lauren? We're not going to arrest you for anything you say in here. You can believe me on that. This is a big homicide case. I don't give a damn about vice."

"She said she had a private scheduled with someone, a big hitter she called Zeus. That was the last time I ever talked to Katherine."

I wrote it down. Zeus?

"Is that some kind of alias? Or was it Katherine's code for the client?"

She dabbed at her eyes. "An alias. Almost everyone uses booking names. You know – Mr. Shakespeare, Pigskin, Dirty Harry, whatever strikes their fancy. It's not like you don't end up face-to-face. But it does mean nobody's real name gets written down anywhere. Believe me, it's safer for everybody that way."

"Sure it is." I nodded. "So Lauren, do you know who Zeus is? Any idea?"

"I don't know. Honestly. This is what I'm saying, trying to say. Supposedly, he had something to do with the government, but Katherine could be gullible that way. I didn't even think twice about it when she told me."

My mind was racing ahead a little now. "Gullible how? Can you expand on that for me? What do you mean?"

Lauren sat back and pushed both hands through her hair, away from her face. I think finally talking about Katherine was a relief for her – if not for me.

"This is the thing you need to understand," she said, and leaned in closer. "Clients lie about what they do all the time. Like, if you think they're more important than they really are, you'll work harder, or let them go bareback or whatever crazy shit it is they're fantasizing about. So I never believe half of what I hear. In fact, I just assume that the ones who talk about their lives are lying. The men with the real power? Those are the ones who keep it all to themselves."

"And Zeus?"

"Honestly, I don't even know if he exists. It's just a name. The name of a Greek god, right? Greek? Maybe that's a clue? His sexual preference?"

I NEVER GOT to make up my own mind about what I thought of Lauren's story – because the next morning, it was made up for me.

I was gassing up my rental at a 7-Eleven on L Street near home, mostly thinking about how I missed my own car. It was in the shop for new glass after the shootout in Alexandria, and I wanted it back – yesterday. There's just no substitute for familiarity, the old faithful comfort zone, even the cup holder in just that spot where you automatically reach.

When the cell phone rang, it was a blocked number, but I'd been answering everything since Nana went into the hospital. I didn't even think about it.

"Dr. Cross?" It was a woman's voice, a little formal, no one I knew. "Please hold for the White House chief of staff."

Before I could respond, I was put on hold. I was stunned – not just by the call itself but by the timing. What the hell was going on here? What now? The White House was calling? Could this be for real?

It didn't take long for Gabriel Reese to come on the line. I recognized his distinctive voice right away, probably from seeing him on the news and the occasional Sunday morning show like Meet the Press.

"Hello, Detective Cross, how are you today?" he began in a chipper enough tone.

"I guess that depends, Mr. Reese. May I ask, how did you get my number?"

He didn't answer, of course. "I'd like to meet with you as soon as possible. Here in my office would be best. It's all been cleared up the line. How soon could you be available?"

I thought about Ned Mahoney and how agitated he had been the other day. How paranoid he had seemed about the records from the investigation getting out. Well – I guess they were out.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reese, but what is this about? Can I at least ask that?"

There was a pause on the line, carefully chosen, maybe; I wasn't sure. Then Reese said, "I think you already know."

Well, I did now.

"I can be there in about fifteen minutes," I said.

Then Reese surprised me again.

"No. Tell me where you are. We'll pick you up."

A LIVERY CAR with a military driver got to my location within a few minutes. The driver followed me to a nearby parking garage, waited, and then took me to the White House.

We came in at the Northwest Appointment Gate, off Pennsylvania. I had to show my ID twice, to the sentry at the gate and then to the armed guard who greeted me at the West Wing turnaround. From there, a Secret Service agent walked me straight in through the entrance closest to the Rose Garden.

I'd been to the White House enough times to know that I was on a fast track, leading straight to the chief of staff's office.

I also understood that they didn't want my visit to attract attention, the reason for the escort.

Gabriel Reese had a reputation as a wonk more than a bulldog, but also for the kind of covert power he wielded here. He and President Vance went back years. More than a few pundits had labeled him the de facto vice president of the administration. What that meant to me was Reese had either initiated this meeting on his own or at the president's request. I didn't think I liked either possibility.

My Secret Service escort delivered me to a woman whose voice matched the one from before, on the phone. She offered coffee, which I declined, and then walked me right in to meet Gabriel Reese.

"Detective Cross, thank you for coming." He shook my hand across his desk and motioned for me to sit in one of the tall wing chairs. "I'm so sorry about your niece. It must have been a horrible shock. I can't even imagine."

"It was, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you, I'm a little uneasy with the amount of information you have about this case."