“Because-because he would have found out anyway. Are you hungry? I never had lunch.”

“No. There’s a flight from National to Toronto at nine. I suggest we be on it.”

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it will look suspicious if we leave. You know how cops think. If we leave, they’ll think we had something to do with Charise’s murder. Leaving is the worst thing we can do. We stay, talk to them all they want, and then we leave.”

She lit another cigarette. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

“I know I’m right. They make a great shrimp Fra Diavolo here. It’s good with pizza bianca. Wine? Red or white?”

“How can you think of food?” she said, disgust in her voice and on her heavily made-up face.

Melincamp stared at her. The smoke from her cigarette still stung his eyes, and he turned away. He had two urges at that moment. The first was to punch her in the face. But that wouldn’t have been appreciated in a public place. The second was to announce to her that it wouldn’t be long before she was past-tense, that he’d soon have enough money to buy her out. Maybe he’d punch her before laying that news on her, he thought. That contemplation made him feel better. He called for a waiter and ordered shrimp Fra Diavolo and a small pizza bianca.

“Oh, Gawd!” she said.

“And red wine,” he said. “The house wine will be fine.”

Pizza was also on the menu at the Department of Homeland Security.

Immediately after his announcement, Secretary Murtaugh had left for a meeting at the White House with President Montgomery and members of his National Security staff. Those in the Nebraska Complex who’d crunched the intelligence for their boss took a breather. Pizza was ordered in, prepared by a neighborhood shop that had been cleared to deliver food to the offices. Over pepperoni and mushroom slices and soft drinks, they discussed the information they’d received, upon which they’d based their recommendation that the color be changed on the Lifesaver, known as the threat barometer.

“I hope it’s not another hoax,” one said as he tried to dab away tomato sauce.

“Not this time,” a colleague said. “Our guy in Amman -the Brit, M.T.-says his source is highly credible. We met the source, remember? The Arab kid who’d studied here. He went through the training, spoke really good English.”

“Yeah, I remember him,” said one of the men at the table. “Name was-ah, Gallop, something like that.”

“Right. Martone recruited him.”

Another analyst at the table laughed. “So M.T. says Gallop, or whatever the hell his name is, came up with good info from this Iraqi he turned. Why the hell is it that we put more stock in what British Intelligence says than we do in our own?”

“Because they talk better,” someone said. “They sound more believable, the King’s English and all.” He did a poor imitation of a British accent.

“Yeah, maybe so, but this guy’s been pretty good. He-”

Their banter was interrupted by a message received over a secured line. The analyst who’d expressed confidence in the British contact in Jordan read it, scowled, and angrily tossed it on the table. It landed in the almost empty pizza box, picking up a greasy red stain at its corner, like blood. The others read it, too.

“Damn,” the first reader of the message said. “Looks like Mr. Gallop didn’t cover his tracks good enough. Our British friend will have to get himself another source.” He got up from the table, took the message from the last person to have read it, and started from the room.

“I’d better run this upstairs.”

Portelain and Johnson stopped at a fast-food outlet, where the portly Portelain downed a chili dog with relish (in both senses of the word) while his comely female partner sipped a Diet Pepsi and watched him enjoy his snack.

“Best in the whole damn city,” he proclaimed.

“If you say so,” she said. “Come on. Let’s pick up the Warren kid before he decides to cool off back in Canada.”

“I’ll bet it is cooler up there,” Portelain said, wiping perspiration from his brow as they headed for their car.

“I didn’t mean the weather,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat while he wedged himself behind the wheel. They drove to N Street and parked at a hydrant in front of the four-story gray building.

“This is it?” Johnson asked, her eyes automatically sweeping the scene in search of potential trouble.

“This is where the man lives,” said Portelain. “Where the victim lived, too. And their manager when he’s in town.”

“The apartment’s that big?”

“No. Tiny little place, but it’s got two bedrooms-closets used as bedrooms is more like it-and a pullout couch in the living room.”

“Cozy,” she said.

“Crowded,” he corrected. “Let’s go. Hope the dude’s home.”

Portelain was about to open his door when Johnson’s hand on his arm stopped him. “There he is,” she said, pointing to Warren, who’d come around the corner.

“Doesn’t look like a piano player to me,” Portelain said.

“What’s a piano player supposed to look like?” she asked.

“I don’t know, little and nerdy, long hair, weird.”

She didn’t bother debating the stereotype as Warren reached the building’s entrance, paused, and noticed the unmarked, illegally parked vehicle. He squinted to see through the tinted glass.

“Let’s take him,” Portelain said.

“Looks like we won’t have to,” Johnson said as Warren approached the car.

Johnson lowered her window. “Hello, Mr. Warren.”

“What are you, following me?” Warren asked, his lip curled.

“Just need to ask you a few questions,” Johnson replied.

“I’ve already told you, I have nothing to say.”

“That may be,” she said, “but we’d like to hear you say it again-for the record. Come on, get in. We’ll spend a few pleasant hours at headquarters and that’ll be it. Our boss is anxious to meet you.”

Warren guffawed, without humor.

“This my partner, Detective Portelain,” Johnson said. “He wanted to meet you, too.”

Warren, who cradled a thick file folder to the Mozart on the chest of his T-shirt, looked at Portelain. The detective smiled. The young Canadian stepped back from the open window, his expression reflecting his ambivalence. Portelain opened his door and got out. Warren continued backing away.

“Hey, man, don’t do somethin’ silly,” Portelain said as he came around the front of the car. Johnson, too, slipped out of the vehicle.

“Grab him,” Johnson said as Warren turned and started walking up the street at a brisk clip.

Portelain took off after him, taking heavy steps, walking as fast as he could. Johnson ran by him. Seeing her, Warren, too, began to run. Portelain progressed from walking to a lope. He stopped to pull his gun from its shoulder holster, and to take in some air. As he did, he saw Warren disappear around the corner, with Johnson close on his heels. “Oh, man,” Portelain said as he started moving again, hoping his partner could corral Warren. “Get him, baby,” he muttered as he reached the corner and peered down the cross street. Johnson stood on the sidewalk a hundred feet away. “He’s down there,” she yelled at her partner, pointing to a narrow alley that ran between buildings.

Portelain reached her, his breathing labored.

“In the alley,” she said, pointing again. “No way out.”

Portelain peered down the alley. It ended thirty feet away, at the rear wall of an apartment or commercial building. Both sides were lined with walls high enough to make scaling them virtually impossible unless the Canadian was Spider-Man.

People on the street became aware of the commotion and surrounded the two detectives. Portelain still held his revolver.