Chandler pointed to a group of men walking purposefully down the hallway toward them. Them. As they drew nearer, their collective footsteps became the boom of cannon in this acoustical tunnel. One of the men wore a suit; the other two were in uniforms and carried sidearms.

Detective Chandler? The man in the suit extended his hand. Im Richard Perkins, marshal of the United States Supreme Court. Perkins was about five-nine, skinny, with the stuck-out ears of a boy, and white hair combed straight over his forehead like a frozen waterfall. He introduced his companions. Chief of Police Leo Dellasandro; his second-in-command, Ron Klaus.

Good to meet you, Chandler said, and he watched Perkins look expectantly over at Fiske. He added, John Fiske. Michael Fiskes brother.

All of them rushed to provide their condolences.

A tragedy. A mindless tragedy, Perkins said. Michael was so highly thought of. Hell be sorely missed.

Fiske managed an appreciative demeanor in the face of all this instant sympathy.

Youve locked up Michael Fiskes office, as I requested? Chandler asked. Dellasandro nodded. It was difficult, because he shared it with another clerk. Two to an office is the norm.

Lets hope we wont need to keep it off limits long.

We can meet in my office if youd like and go over your agenda, Detective Chandler, Perkins offered. Its right down the hallway.

Lets do it.

As Fiske started off with them, Perkins stopped and looked at Chandler.

Im sorry. I was assuming that Mr. Fiske was here for another reason unrelated to your investigation.

Hes helping me out with some background information on his brother, Chandler said. Perkins looked at Fiske with what Fiske gauged as unfriendly eyes.

I didnt even know Michael had a brother, said Perkins. He never mentioned you.

Thats okay, he never mentioned you either, Fiske replied. Perkinss office was right off the hallway leading to the courtroom. It was furnished in an old-fashioned colonial style, the architecture and craftsmanship from an era of government unburdened with trillion-dollar national debts and budgets awash in red. At a side table of Perkinss office sat a man in his late forties. His blond hair was cut very short, and his long narrow face carried an unshakable air of authority. His self-assured manner suggested that he enjoyed the exercise of that authority. When he rose, Fiske noted that he was well over six feet tall and looked as though he spent regular time in the gym.

Detective Chandler? The man extended one hand and with the other flashed his identification card. FBI Special Agent Warren McKenna.

Chandler looked at Perkins. I wasnt aware that the Bureau had been brought in on this.

Perkins started to say something, but McKenna said briskly, As Im sure you know, the attorney general and the FBI have the legal right to fully investigate the murder of any person employed by the United States government. However, the Bureau is not looking to take over the investigation or step on your toes.

Thats good, because even the tiniest bit of unwanted pressure and I just go nuts. Chandler smiled. McKennas expression remained unchanged. Ill try to keep that in mind.

Fiske held out his hand. John Fiske, Agent McKenna. Michael Fiske was my brother.

Im sorry, Mr. Fiske. I know it must be damn tough for you, McKenna said, shaking his hand. The FBI agent focused again on Chandler. If conditions dictate a more active role for the Bureau, then we would expect your full cooperation. Remember that the victim was a federal employee. He looked around the room. Employed by one of the most revered institutions in the world. And perhaps one of the most feared.

Fear out of ignorance, Perkins pointed out.

But feared nonetheless. After Waco, the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City, weve learned to be extra careful, McKenna said.

Too bad you people werent faster learners, Chandler said dryly. But turf battles are big wastes of time. I do believe in share and share alike, though, okay?

Of course, McKenna said. Chandler asked a half hours worth of questions, trying basically to establish if any case Michael Fiske had been working on at the Court could have led to his murder. The same answer kept coming back to him from each of the Court representatives: Impossible.

McKenna asked very few questions but listened intently to the ones asked by Chandler.

The precise details of cases pending before the Court are so well insulated from the public that there would be no way anyone could know what a specific clerk is or isnt working on. Perkins smacked the tabletop with his palm to emphasize the point.

Unless that clerk told someone.

Perkins shook his head. I personally run them through the drill on security and confidentiality as part of their orientation. The ethical rules which apply to them are very stringent. Theyre even provided with a handbook on the subject. No leaks are permitted.

Chandler looked unconvinced. Whats the average age of the clerks here? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?

Something like that.

Theyre kids, working at the highest court in the land. You telling me that its impossible that they might let something slip? Not even to impress a date?

Ive been around long enough to know better than to use the wordimpossibleto ever describe anything.

Im a homicide detective, Mr. Perkins, and believe you me, I got the same damn problem.

Could we back up to square one here? Dellasandro said. From what I know about the case, it seemed that robbery was the motive. He spread his hands and looked expectantly at Chandler. How does that involve the Court? Have you searched his apartment yet?

Not yet. Im sending a team over tomorrow.

How do we know its not something connected to his personal life? Dellasandro asked. Everyone looked at Chandler for an answer. The detective glanced down at his notes without really focusing on them. Im just covering all the bases. Going to a homicide victims place of work and asking questions is not even remotely unusual, gentlemen.

Certainly, Perkins said. You can count on our full cooperation.

Now why dont we have a look at Mr. Fiskes office, Chandler said. ["C24"]CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The man glided cat-smooth down the corridor. He was six-foot-three, lean but strongly built, with wide shoulders fanning out from a thick neck. He had a long and narrow face; the skin chestnut brown and smooth, except for deep tracings of lines at the eyes and mouth, like the whorls of a fingerprint. He wore a crumpled Virginia Tech baseball cap. A short-haired black and gray beard outlined his jaw. He was dressed in worn jeans and a faded, sweat-stained denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off a pair of thick, veiny forearms. A pack of Pall Malls poked out of the shirts front pocket. He approached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner. As soon as he did so, the soldier sitting next to the doorway of the last room on the hall rose and held up a hand.

Sorry, sir, this area is off limits to everyone except necessary medical personnel.

My brothers in there, Joshua Harms said. And Im going to see him.

Im afraid thats impossible.

Harms eyed the soldiers name tag. Im afraid it aint, Private Brown. I visit him at the prison all the time. Now you let me in there, you hear me?

I dont think so.

Well, then Im gonna go round up the head of this hospital and the local police and the damn commandant over at Fort Jackson and tell em you refused to allow a family member to visit a dying relative. Then theyll all take turns kicking your butt on down the road, soldier boy. Did I mention I spent three years in Vietnam and got me enough medals to cover your whole damn body? Now you gonna let me in or we gonna have to go down that other street? I want your answer and I want it right this damned minute.