That night over dinner, Will told Kate about Freddie’s files. “He knew all about us when we thought it was a secret,” he said.

“How much did he know?”

“Pretty much everything.”

She looked shocked. “Not what we did in bed.”

“No, at least he didn’t make notes about it. He outlined the whole business with Ed Rawls, too. You should have told me about it at the time.”

“Come on, Will, aren’t you glad I didn’t? I mean, really?”

“Well, yes. At least I could have truthfully denied knowing about it.”

“That can be important sometimes.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the most recent letter from Ed, either. “What did you do with the file?”

“I shredded it.”

“Before I had a chance to read it?”

“There were things that didn’t concern you in the file.”

“Aha! Other women!”

“Well, yes, but long before I met you. It was all very innocent.”

“Innocent?”

“Well, maybe not completely innocent. You would have approved.”

“I doubt it,” she said, kicking him under the table.

“Well, that’s my best guess.”

“Well never know now, will we?”

Will beamed at her. “I guess not.”

22

HELEN WALKED INTO Kinney’s office and deposited a thick file on his desk. “Two agents and I went through all the files the CIA sent over, and this is the only one that we found interesting. I think you should read it.”

“Have a seat,” Kinney said, opening the file. He speed-read it, every page, then closed the file. “Send your two agents over to Judge Henry’s chambers with the file, and tell them to get a search warrant for the home, vehicles, and any other property of Edward Eugene Coulter. I want it by lunchtime. In the meantime, assemble a search party and a tech team. We’re going to do this right.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then left his office.

Kinney took a deep breath. His hunch had been right; their man was a federal retiree with a tech background, and before the day was over, they would have the son of a bitch in custody. He began thinking about retirement, but he hadn’t gotten far when his phone buzzed.

“There’s a Nancy Kimble on line one. Do you know her?”

“Yes, I’ll talk to her.” He pressed the button. “I was just thinking about you,” he lied.

“That’s a lie, but a nice one. I can see my way to get to D.C. for a few days. Are you receptive to that?”

“Receptive isn’t a strong enough word. How soon?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We may have something to celebrate. I’ll look forward to it.” He gave her his address. “I’ll leave a key for you at the front desk.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

He liked it that she was brief on the phone. He hated phone conversations, except to exchange important information or to arrange meetings. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.

“It’s the president,” Helen said.

He nearly asked the president of what, but he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Good morning, Bob. I want to thank you for your kindness in sending me that information yesterday.”

“I was glad to do it, sir.”

“There was nothing there I didn’t already know, except how much the gentleman knew, and that was a surprise. It made interesting reading. How are you coming on the murder investigation?”

“We have a hot lead right now, Mr. President, a retired CIA employee with exactly the right background. I’ve already requested a search warrant.”

“I’d appreciate a call when you know if it pans out,” the president said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Good morning to you, Bob.” The president hung up.

It was the first call that Kinney had ever received from a president, and it left him a little breathless. Suddenly, he remembered that he had lied to the man. He had, after all, copied the files, and he made a mental note to shred the pages pertaining to the president when he returned home that night.

Kinney felt better than he had in months. He had a suspect, his girl was on her way to D.C., and he had just taken a call from the president.

THE HOUSE WAS ON a pretty street in Arlington, Virginia, a comfortable, old-fashioned brick structure surrounded by other, similar houses. It was on a half-acre lot with a three-car garage, which set it apart from its neighbors, and one garage door was half again as big as the others. “Look at that door,” Kinney said as they made their pass. “He has an RV. We were right about that. I hope you didn’t talk to any of his neighbors.”

“No, sir,” Smith replied “We’ve stayed away from the house. Besides the RV he has two cars-an Audi Six and one of the newer VW Bugs. He owns four handguns, all licensed.”

“You and I will make the first approach. We’ll radio when we’ve secured Mr. Coulter. I don’t want to arrive with a SWAT team, especially since he’s armed. Let’s try not to alarm him.”

“Yes, sir. You want me to park now?”

“Go around the block once more. I want to see the house from the back, if it’s possible.”

“It’s not, but we’ve got half a dozen agents ready to go in through the back door.”

“Keep them calm,” he said to the team in the backseat of his car.

“Yes, sir,” an agent replied. He spoke into a handheld radio. “Everybody relax. The deputy director and Smith are going in first. They’ll call us when the house is secure.” The radio crackled with terse responses.

They were coming around the block again. “Just pull right into the driveway,” Kinney said. “We’ll get out of the car real casual-like, then go slowly to the front door and ring the bell like citizens.”

“Yes, sir.” Smith swung the sedan into the driveway and stopped.

“You two stay here and be inconspicuous,” Kinney said to the two men in the backseat. “Let’s go, Smith.” He got out of the car and stretched as if he’d driven a long way, looked around the neighborhood, then slowly made his way to the house and up the front steps. The doorbell was a friendly chime, but it wasn’t answered immediately. Kinney looked at Smith. “Are they home?”

“The first team in the neighborhood talked to the mailman, who says they’re always home in the mornings.”

The front door opened. A small woman in her sixties stood there. “Yes?”

“Good morning,” Kinney said, smiling. “Are you Mrs. Coulter?”

“Yes, I am.”

“My name is Robert Kinney. I’m from the FBI. May I see your husband, please?” He didn’t flash a badge, didn’t want it to seem too official.

“Of course. Please come in. He’s in the den, having his lunch.”

Kinney followed her across the living room toward another door. He could hear the sound of a TV set-CNN.

“Now?” Smith asked quietly.

“Not yet,” Kinney replied.

They emerged into a room lined with books, with a large projection TV in one corner. Across the room a man sat in a recliner, his feet up, a tray in his lap.

“Ted, this is Mr. Kinney, from the FBI,” Mrs. Coulter said. “He wants to talk to you.”

Coulter looked up. He looked younger than his sixty-seven years, with black hair and an unlined face. “Morning,” he said. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Coulter,” Kinney said, producing his badge. “I’m Bob Kinney, this is Special Agent Kerry Smith.”

“How do you do?” Coulter said. “Betty, will you get my thing for me?” He held out his tray and she took it away and went toward the kitchen.

Kinney nodded at Smith to follow her. “Give Mrs. Coulter a hand, will you, Kerry.”

“What’s this about, Agent Kinney?” Coulter asked.

Kinney reached into an inside pocket and produced the legal document. “Mr. Coulter, I have a search warrant for your home, your property, and your vehicles.” He handed it to Coulter, who opened it and began reading.

Kinney waited for him to finish. “Do you understand the warrant?”

“Yes, I do,” Coulter replied, “though I confess I’m baffled. Why do you want to search my place?”