“Vinnie!” Mullin shouted as he threaded his way through automobiles that had stopped when their drivers saw what was going on. He reached his partner, fell to his knees, and asked, “Where you hit, buddy?”

“It’s okay,” Accurso said, trying to get to a sitting position. “My leg. That’s all. Just my leg.”

Mullin saw a crimson puddle forming around Accurso’s knee. He barked into the radio, “Officer down! Officer down!” and gave the location.

“Get the shooter,” Accurso said.

“Yeah, later, Vinnie. He’s gone. You see him?”

Accurso whimpered against a sharp pain. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“Good.”

“Let Katie know I’m okay.”

“Sure.”

“And give her the fruit. She wanted fruit.”

“Yeah, I’ll give her the fruit, Vinnie. She’ll get the fruit.”

Detective Fred Peck was in a good mood that morning, which reflected the fact that Helen had awoken in sufficiently good spirits to have gotten up with him and prepared breakfast, as rare an occurrence in the Peck household as candor at a presidential press conference. The reason for her springtime mood was a hand-painted mirror imported from France that she’d wanted for the foyer since spotting it weeks ago in a local antique store. Fred had stopped by the shop on his way home the evening before and bought it for her. After many attempts to hang it precisely where she wanted it, he finally succeeded. The glass in it was wavy, but he didn’t mention that flaw to her. She was pleased, which was what counted.

He signed in to the Missing Persons Unit, closed his office door, sat behind his desk, and examined the copy of the police artist’s sketch of the man Fox News reporter Joyce Rosenberg had described. It was interesting-the ability of police artists to create a workable composite of men and women based upon descriptions by witnesses always impressed him. But whether this sketch would be of any use to Tim Stripling was conjecture. All Peck could and would do was deliver it to Stripling, as promised. He slipped the sketch into a large manila envelope, wrote TS on it, placed it in the wide center drawer of his desk, and left the office.

“Hey, Fred,” a detective in the bullpen said when Peck entered.

“Where’s Mullin and Accurso?” Peck asked.

“Out. Mullin came up with the name of the guy who was at Union Station when the old Italian got whacked.”

“He did? How’d he do that?”

The detective shrugged and pointed to a half-consumed box of Dunkin’ Donuts on the desk. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“He got some info off the Internet,” the detective said, helping himself to a jelly doughnut.

Peck went to the central computer room and asked the officer on duty about Mullin, whether he’d downloaded information about a potential witness to the Union Station shooting.

“Yeah, he did. He had the name spelled wrong, but it was close enough.”

“What did you come up with?”

“You want a copy?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Armed with the same information Mullin had been given, Peck returned to his office, closed the door, and placed a call.

One of the two cell phones Tim Stripling carried rang. He saw that it wasn’t the one provided by the FBI and flipped open the cover on his personal phone. “Hello?”

“Tim. It’s Fred Peck.”

Stripling had just finished breakfast at Patisserie Café Didier, in Georgetown.

“What’s up, Fred?” he asked.

Stripling smiled at Peck’s lowering of his voice. “I have what you want,” said the detective.

“Meaning?”

“The name of the witness at Union Station.”

Stripling pulled a pen from his jacket and positioned it over a white paper napkin. “Shoot.”

“No,” Peck said. “I want to give it to you personally.”

“Why? Just give me the name.”

“I have a picture, too.”

“The sketch?”

“And a photo.”

Stripling glanced around the popular patisserie and also lowered his voice. “Now?” he asked.

“I’m tied up this morning,” Peck said.

Sounds kinky, Stripling thought. “Lunch?”

“Yes. But, Tim.”

“Huh?”

“This will cost you big.”

Greedy bastard, Stripling thought. His wife must be holding out on him in bed unless she gets paid.

“I’ll take care of you,” Stripling said.

“I mean, it’s got to be a lot more.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“South Austin Grill in Alexandria. Noon?”

Tex-Mex food, Stripling thought, wincing. He disliked southwestern food. All beans and mush. “All right,” he said.

He’d no sooner closed the cover on his cell phone when the other one rang.

“Stripling.”

“We’d like to meet,” the FBI agent said.

“Why?”

“To get an update.”

“I don’t have anything to update you on.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“That may be, but-”

“One o’clock. Usual place.”

“No can do. I’ll have something for you later this afternoon.”

“What time?”

“Four.”

The agent hung up.

He used his personal phone to call Mark Roper at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

“What a pleasant surprise hearing from you,” Roper said.

“Always aim to please, Mark. I’ve got a breakthrough for your friends.”

“My friends?”

“You know who I’m talking about. I’m due for a raise.”

“Timothy, please, I-”

“Seven-fifty starting today. And a bonus of two thousand.”

“For Christ’s sake, Tim.”

“I’m serious, Mark. It’s either that or you get somebody else. My expenses have suddenly gone up.”

“What’s this breakthrough?”

“We have a deal?”

“All right. But-”

“I’ll get back to you. Or maybe your friends will. Ciao.”

Marienthal didn’t take time for a leisurely breakfast at a trendy Georgetown patisserie that morning. He was at the local branch of his bank when it opened at nine, presenting the keys to his safe deposit box to the by-now-familiar woman on the platform. He’d been in and out of the safe deposit vault on a daily basis for almost a year.

“How’s your book going?” she asked as she inserted his keys and the master key into his rented boxes.

“Oh, good. Yeah, pretty good.”

“That’s great.”

She discreetly left as Marienthal emptied the contents of the boxes into a large canvas shoulder bag. He signaled her; she returned and together they locked the boxes.

“Thanks,” he said.

“See you this afternoon?” she asked, aware of his habit of returning materials to the boxes just before the bank’s closing time each day.

“Not sure,” he said.

He walked quickly to his car parked around the corner, opened the trunk, deposited the canvas bag in it alongside a suitcase, slammed the trunk closed, looked around to ensure no one was paying attention to him, got behind the wheel, and eased his way into traffic. A half hour later, he was checked into the River Inn in Foggy Bottom, a small, all-suite hotel within walking distance of the Kennedy Center, a favorite of visitors contemplating a longer stay in Washington. He used his cell phone to call Kathryn Jalick at the Library of Congress.

“For you, Kathryn,” a colleague in the rare documents room said.

“Rich?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine. You?”

“Okay.”

“Look, Kathryn, just remember what I told you. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to know where I am.”

“I know.”

“Don’t write down the number here. Don’t write down anything and leave it around the apartment.”

“I won’t. But, Rich, what about your folks? Mac Smith? What do I tell them?”

“Just say I’m out of town on business. I’ll be gone a week, maybe longer.”

“All right.”

“When will you tell Geoff?”