“I feel like quitting,” I said.

“That’s always an option,” he said. “Anyway, you got your wife to back off?”

“My ex-wife. She got the point right away. She’s a finely tuned political animal, Lauren is. But I had to tell her who the murderer was.”

He shrugged. “There’s not much she can do in the next couple of hours.”

I said, “But what about these pictures? She says they won’t stand up in court. And Sanders said the same thing: the day of photographic evidence is over. Do we have any other evidence?”

“I’ve been working on that,” Connor said. “I think we’re all right.”

“How?”

Connor shrugged.

We came to the back entrance to my apartment. I unlocked the door, and we went into the kitchen. It was empty. I went down the corridor to the front hall. My apartment was quiet. The doors to the living room were closed. But there was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.

Elaine, my housekeeper, was standing in the front hall, looking out the window at the reporters on the street below. She turned when she heard us. She looked frightened.

I said, “Is Michelle all right?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Playing in the living room.”

“I want to see her.”

Elaine said, “Lieutenant, there’s something I have to tell you first.”

“Never mind,” Connor said. “We already know.”

He threw open the door to the living room. And I had the biggest shock of my life.

John Morton sat in the makeup chair at the television studio, a Kleenex tucked around his collar, while the girl powdered his forehead. Standing at his side, his aide Woodson said, “This is how they recommend you handle it.” He handed a fax to Morton.

“The basic through-line,” Woodson said, “is that foreign investment invigorates America. America is made stronger by the influx of foreign money. America has much to learn from Japan.”

“And we aren’t learning it,” Morton said gloomily.

“Well, the argument can be made,” Woodson said. “It’s a viable position and as you can see, the way Marjorie shaped it, it doesn’t read as a change of position so much as a refinement of your previous view. You can skate on this one, John. I don’t think it is going to be an issue.”

“Is the question even going to come up?”

“I think so. I’ve told the reporters you are prepared to discuss a modification of your position on MicroCon. How you now favor the sale.”

“Who’ll ask it?”

“Probably Frank Pierce of the Times.”

Morton nodded. “He’s okay.”

“Yeah. Business orientation. Should be fine. You can talk about free markets, fair trade. Lack of national security issues on this sale. All that.”

The makeup girl finished, and Morton stood up from the chair.

“Senator, I’m sorry to bother you, but could I have your autograph?”

“Sure,” he said.

“It’s for my son.”

“Sure,” he said.

Woodson said, “John, we have a rough assembly of the commercial if you want to see it. It’s very rough, but you might like to give comments. I’ve set it up for you in the next room.”

“How much time have I got?”

“Nine minutes to airtime.”

“Fine.”

He started out the door and saw us. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “You need me for anything?”

“Just a short conversation, Senator,” Connor said.

“I’ve got to look at a tape,” Morton said. “Then we can talk. But I’ve only got a couple of minutes…”

“That’s all right,” Connor said.

We followed him into another room, which overlooked the studio below. Down there, on a beige-colored set that said NEWSMAKERS, three reporters were shuffling through their notes and being fitted with microphones. Morton sat in front of a television set, and Woodson plugged in a cassette.

We saw the commercial that was shot earlier in the day. It had a timecode running at the bottom of the frame, and it opened with Senator Morton, looking determined, walking over the golf course.

The basic message was that America had lost its economic competitiveness, and that we had to get it back.

“It’s time for all of us to pull together,” Morton said, on the monitor. “Everyone from our politicians in Washington, to our leaders of business and labor, to our teachers and children, to all of us in our homes. We need to pay our bills as we go, and cut the government deficit. We need to increase savings. To improve our roads and education. We need a government policy of energy conservation—for our environment, for our children’s lungs, and for our global competitiveness.”

The camera moved close to the senator’s face, for his closing remarks.

“There are some who say that we are entering a new era of global business,” he said. “They say it no longer matters where companies are located, or where things are made. That ideas of national economies are old-fashioned and out of date. To those people, I say—Japan doesn’t think so. Germany doesn’t think so. The most successful countries in the world today maintain strong national policies for energy conservation, for the control of imports, for promotion of exports. They nourish their industries, protecting them against unfair competition from abroad. Business and government work together to look after their own people and their jobs. And those countries are doing better than America, because those economic policies reflect the real world. Their policies work. Ours don’t. We do not live in an ideal world, and until we do, America had better face the truth. We had better build our own brand of hard-nosed economic nationalism. We had better take care of Americans. Because nobody else will.

“I want to make it clear: the industrial giants of Japan and Germany are not the cause of our problems. Those countries are challenging America with new realities—and it is up to us to face those realities, and meet their economic challenge head on. If we do so, our great country will enter an era of unparalleled prosperity. But if we continue as we are, mouthing the ancient platitudes of a free market economy, disaster awaits us. The choice is ours. Join me in choosing to meet the new realities—and to make a better economic future for the American people.”

The screen went blank.

Morton sat back. “When does this run?”

“It’ll start in nine weeks. Test run in Chicago and the Twin Cities, associated focus groups, any modifications, then the national break in July.”

“Long after MicroCon…”

“Oh, yes.”

“Okay, good. Go with it.”

Woodson took the tape, and left the room. Morton turned to us. “Well? What can I do for you?”

Connor waited until the door had closed. Then he said, “Senator, you can tell us about Cheryl Austin.”

There was a pause. Morton looked at each of us. A blank expression came over his face. “Cheryl Austin?”

“Yes, Senator.”

“I’m not sure that I know who—“

“Yes, Senator,” Connor said. And he handed Morton a watch. It was a woman’s gold Rolex.

“Where did you get this?” Morton said. His voice was low now, icy.

A woman knocked on the door. “Six minutes, Senator.” She closed the door.

“Where did you get this?” he repeated.

“Don’t you know?” Connor said. “You haven’t even looked at the back. At the inscription.”

“Where did yet get this?”

“Senator, we’d like you to talk to us about her.” He took a glassine bag from his pocket, and set it on the table next to Morton. It contained a pair of women’s black panties.

“I have nothing to say to you gentlemen,” Morton said. “Nothing at all.”

Connor took a videotape from his pocket, and set it next to the senator. “This is a tape from one of five different cameras which recorded the incident on the forty-sixth floor. The tape has been altered, but it was still possible to extract an image that shows who the person with Cheryl Austin was.”