“She asked that it be hand-delivered,” I offer.

Neither of them is impressed. After reading my name from my ID, the taller officer steps into the Usher’s Office, which is right next to the stairs, and picks up the telephone. “I have a Michael Garrick down here.” He listens for a second. “No. Yeah. I’ll tell him. Thanks.” He hangs up the phone and looks back at me. “She’s not up there.”

“What? That’s impossible. When did she leave?”

“They said it was in the last ten minutes. If she takes the elevator down, we don’t see her.”

“Don’t they update her movements on your radio?”

“Not until she leaves the building.”

I stare him down. There’s nothing left to say. “Tell her I came by,” I add, heading back down the stairs.

As I make my way down, I see someone heading up. The staircase isn’t a wide one, so we brush shoulders, and I get my first good look at him. He’s wearing khakis and a navy blue polo. But it’s the earpiece he’s wearing that gives him away. Secret Service. One of Nora’s agents. Harry. His name’s Harry. He’s part of her personal detail. And the only time he leaves her side is when she’s upstairs in the Residence.

I turn around and follow him upstairs. As soon as the uniformed officers see me, they know I know.

“You were lying to me?” I ask the taller officer.

“Listen, son, this isn’t-”

“Why’d you lie?”

“Take it easy,” Harry says.

Within seconds, I see a plainclothes agent running up the stairs, from the Ground Floor. A second in a dark suit steps in and blocks the entrance to the hallway.

How the hell did they react so quickly? I look over my shoulder and get the answer. In the air conditioner vent by the doorway is a tiny penlight camera pointed straight at me.

Harry puts a hand on my shoulder. “Take my word for it,” he says. “You can’t win.”

He’s right about that one. I pull away from him and head back toward the stairs. Looking at Harry, I add, “Tell her we have to talk.”

He nods, but doesn’t say a word.

Storming down the stairs, I brush past the agent who’s blocking my way. “Have a nice day,” he says as I leave.

On my way back to the OEOB, I realize I’m squeezing both hands into tight fists. Opening them up, I stretch out my fingers, trying to shake off Nora’s dismissal. Yet with release comes panic. It’s not that bad, I tell myself. She’ll come through. She’s just being careful now. Besides, all I did was find the body and yell a bit. It’s not like I’m a suspect. No one even knows about the money. Except for Nora. And the D.C. police. And Caroline. And anyone else she told about the… Damn, the rumors could already be out there. And when they realize the bills are consecutive…

My thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of my beeper. I pull it from my pocket and check the message. That’s when I’m reminded of the one other person who knows about the money. The message says it all: “Would like to speak to you. In person. E.S.”

E.S. Edgar Simon.

Sitting in the waiting room outside Simon’s office, my only distraction is Judy’s typing. Simon’s personal assistant, Judy Stohr, is a chubby little woman with dyed red hair. Divorced the year Hartson decided to run for President, she gave up on men, moved from New Jersey to Hartson’s home state of Florida, and joined the campaign. A walking encyclopedia for every day that’s passed since then, Judy loves her new life. But as the always attentive mother of two college-age kids, she’ll never be able to change who she is.

“What’s wrong? You look sick.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“Don’t tell me ‘fine.’ You’re not fine.”

“Judy, I promise you, there’s nothing wrong.” As she stares me down, I add, “I’m sad about Caroline.”

“Ucch, it’s terrible. On my worst enemy, I wouldn’t wish such-”

“Does he have anyone in there?” I interrupt, pointing to Simon’s closed door.

“No, he’s just been making calls. He’s the one who told the President. And Caroline’s family. Now he’s talking to the major papers… ”

“Why?” I ask nervously.

“His office; his territory. He’s the point man on this. Press wants reaction from her boss.”

That makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Any other news?”

Judy leans back in her chair, enjoying her moment as the most informed. “It’s a heart attack. FBI’s still going through the office, but they know what’s going on-Caroline smoked more than my Aunt Sally and drank six cups of coffee a day. No offense, but what’d she expect?”

I shrug, unsure of how to respond.

In my silence, Judy sees something in my eyes. “You want to tell me what’s really upsetting you, Michael?”

“It’s nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“You’re not still intimidated by these guys, are you? You shouldn’t be-you’re better than ’ em all. That ’s truth talking to you: You’re a real person. That’s why people like you.”

During my third week on the job, I mistakenly sent a letter to the head of the House Judiciary Committee that began “Dear Congressman” as opposed to “Dear Mr. Chairman.” This being egoville, the Chairman’s staff left a snide remark about it on Simon’s voice-mail, and after a quick lashing by Simon, I made the mistake of telling Judy how intimidating it was being a state school boy in the White House’s Ivy League world. Since then, I’ve realized I could hold my own. For me, it’s no longer an issue. For Judy, it’s always my problem.

“The more you succeed, the more they get scared,” she explains. “You’re a threat to the old boy network-rock-solid proof that it doesn’t matter where you went to school or who your parents-”

“I get the point,” I say with a snap.

Judy gives me a second to cool down. “You’re still not over it, are you?”

“I promise you, I’m fine. I just need to speak to Simon.”

Before last night, Edgar Simon was a great guy. Born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he had less swagger than the East Coast power brokers and Beltway insiders who’d previously held the White House Counsel position. As a double-Harvard graduate, he wasn’t lacking in gray matter. But I never focus on résumés. What impressed me most about Simon was his personal life.

A few months after I was hired, the press began to suspect that President Hartson was hiding the fact that he had prostate cancer. When the New York Times suggested that Hartson had a legal responsibility to share his medical records with the public, Simon stepped into his first major crisis. Forty-eight hours later, he found out that his twelve-year-old son was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a genetic disorder of the nervous system that’s potentially disabling for children.

After a three-day, no-sleep, rip-your-hair-out research marathon dedicated to the legal issues surrounding presidential medical privacy, Simon handed two things to the President: a briefing book on the crisis and his own resignation. Simon made it clear-his son came first.

Needless to say, the press ate it like popcorn. Parenting magazine crowned him Father of the Year. Then, one month later, when the initial crisis had passed, Simon returned to his position as Counsel. He said the President twisted his arm. Others said Simon couldn’t stand being away from power. Either way, it didn’t matter. At the height of his career, Edgar Simon walked away from it all. For his son. I’d always respect him for that.

Stepping into his office, I try to picture the Edgar Simon I used to know-the Father of the Year. All I see, though, is the man from last night-the viper with the forty-thousand-dollar secret.

Sitting at his desk, he looks up at me with the same mischievous smile he gave me this morning. But unlike our earlier encounter, I now know that he saw us last night. And I know what he told Caroline-whatever their disagreements were, he put the finger on me. Still, there’s not a hint of anger on his face. In fact, the way his dark eyebrows are raised, he actually looks concerned.