“Christopher Warren,” Morris said. “Yes, we believe him. The pieces all fit.”

“We have agents working with the New York police on this Melincamp murder,” the special agent said.

“Any leads on who killed him?” Berry asked.

“Not at the moment,” the FBI agent said. “Let’s go over your report more closely.”

The report was based upon an hour-long interrogation of Chris Warren following the fax informing Washington’s MPD that Melincamp had been found dead in New York. That news had shaken Warren badly; Berry wondered whether he might have a breakdown before they could question him. But Warren pulled himself together and began to talk, and soon words and thoughts were flowing as though an internal dam had broken.

“…and I’m glad that Philip is dead,” Warren said, drawing in gulps of air. “He deserved to die.”

“Why is that?” Sylvia Johnson asked.

“Because of what he did to people. I wanted to kill him myself, but I was…”

“You were what?”

“I was afraid of him. That’s why I didn’t say anything when he killed Charise. He told me that if I talked to anybody about it, the same thing would happen to me.”

“If you talked about what?” Berry asked. “Charise’s murder?”

“That, and the plan, too.”

“What in hell plan are you talking about, Warren?” Willie asked, his impatience showing.

“The plan to kill the president or some other big shot. It was going to be part of a larger plan, a bunch of American political big shots killed the same day.”

That statement brought a hush to the dimly lighted room. The tape recorder ran silently.

“Go on,” Berry said softly.

The three detectives sat back and allowed Warren to continue, which he did for the better part of the hour.

He told of how Charise had fallen under the spell of the young Arab student she’d started dating, and how that student had introduced her to a terrorist cell in Toronto with plans to strike another blow against the United States. Melincamp, he said, also exerted a strong hold over Charise, and she brought him into her new sphere of terrorist friends.

“What was in it for Melincamp?” Sylvia asked.

“Money. He wanted out of the partnership with Zöe and needed money, big money to buy her out. He and Zöe had some kind of agreement that gave him the right to do that. The terrorists promised him and Charise a ton of money if they would assassinate someone when they were in Washington.”

“When did you learn about this?” asked Berry.

“After we got here. I owed Melincamp money. He kept giving me advances. When it got to be a lot, he said he’d drop me and see to it that I didn’t have a career as a pianist. I believed him.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Willie said. “Hold on a minute. Are you telling us that you kept your mouth shut because you owed this slimeball money?”

“In the beginning,” Warren responded. “But it was more than that. When Charise told him she wasn’t going through with it, he-”

“She decided not to cooperate?” Berry asked.

“That’s right. She got cold feet. I don’t think she ever intended to do it. She might have been a little screwed up, preaching how the U.S. is out to conquer the world, keep people in poverty, dumb stuff like that. But she wouldn’t have tried to assassinate anybody.” He shook his head. “Man, when she told me about the plan, I just laughed. At first. She was supposed to get close to the president whenever she could and-and kill him. Kill somebody. Charise told me that the president and his wife were opera lovers, and attended a lot of operas. Melincamp and the terrorists figured she’d have it easy getting close, being young and pretty and Canadian, maybe even get to sing for them, and then shoot him.”

“She had a gun?” Willie asked.

“Melincamp did. He showed it to me whenever he threatened me about talking to people.”

“When did Charise confide in you about the plot, Chris?” Sylvia asked.

“Just before she was killed. I told her we should go to the police or Secret Service or somebody, but she said she wanted to talk to Melincamp first. She was supposed to meet him at the Kennedy Center the night he killed her.”

“And Melincamp admitted to you that he’d murdered her?” Berry asked.

Warren nodded. “That’s when he said the same thing would happen to me if I talked about it. He tried to get me to take her place and kill the president, but I told him no way. If Melincamp didn’t pull it off, they wouldn’t pay him the money he was promised.”

Berry halted the session to see whether Warren wanted anything to eat or drink.

“No. I just want to get this over with.”

“Fair enough,” Berry said. “Now, what about last night? You went to see Melincamp’s partner, Ms. Baltsa.”

Another nod from Warren. He kept his head lowered, his eyes focused on the table as he spoke. “I went to the hotel to tell her I wanted out of the program at Takoma Park, and was going back home.”

“Did she know about this scheme of Melincamp’s to kill an American official?”

“No.”

“Did she know he’d killed Ms. Lee?”

“She suspected, but didn’t know for sure until I told her last night. She said Philip was coming to see her later, after I left. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

The detectives said nothing in response; they knew that he was telling the truth.

“You still have him in custody?” the FBI agent asked Cole Morris.

“Yes. He’s in protective custody.”

“We’ll want to talk to him.”

“Of course.”

“Did he give you the names of this Arab boyfriend back in Toronto, and his terrorist friends?”

“Yes.” Morris provided another piece of paper with that information.

“We’ll take it from here,” Browning said from his spot at the end of the long table. “This goes far beyond just the murder of some opera singer. There’s national security at stake.”

“Until we’re told otherwise,” the FBI agent said, “it’s our jurisdiction.”

“I’ll get a reading from Justice,” Browning said. “This young man aided and abetted a terrorist plot to kill the president of the United States. He can be held as an enemy combatant until all the links have been explored, all the dots connected.”

Berry looked at Morris and raised his eyebrows.

“We’re happy to help in any way we can,” Morris said, “but until I get a reading from Justice that says otherwise, Mr. Warren will stay with us. He’s a material witness to two murders that occurred in our jurisdiction.”

“Maybe this will help you with the murder of the opera singer at the Kennedy Center,” Browning said, sliding badly wrinkled and folded sheets of yellow legal-size lined paper to Morris.

“What’s this?” Morris asked.

“Read it,” Browning said. “It was found on Melincamp in New York.”

Morris carefully unfolded the pages and ran his hand over them on the table to straighten the creases. Most of the handwriting was crude and in blue pen, difficult to read. A few lines at the top of the first page had been written in pencil, obviously added after the main section.

To whom it may concern:

In the event of my death, I want you to understand why I did what I did.

The writing in blue pen followed.

She died quickly and with a modicum of suffering.

This came as no surprise. Unlike so-called crimes of passion which are invariably messy, drawn out, and painful, I’d been planning her death for more than a week.

She had to be eliminated because she’d learned something that I preferred she not know, which raised the possibility that she would pass that newfound knowledge along to others. I couldn’t allow that.