Boy did I. "Yeah."

"Be there at eight o'clock."

He was referring to a cafe in the Northeast section of D.C. called Mercedes' Grill, named after Mercedes Benson, a legendary, larger-than-life woman who owned the grill. It was a popular hangout for D.C. politicians, police, and others in what they liked to call the second society. The first society of course were all the white people who worked on Capitol Hill, at the Supreme Court, and at all the federal agencies, almost all white, who comprised the decision makers in the federal government and who lived in Virginia and Maryland. The real Washington, the second society, were those who lived in and ran the city: the mayor, the city council, the police, the fire department, and local religious and civic leaders. Notably they were all black. It was like two cities. One on top of the other. White on top of black. The white part of the city didn't realize it, the black part of the city did. And those who knew that and understood it hung out at Mercedes' Grill. I had felt out of place the last time I had been there because white people simply didn't go there. Everyone there, from the owners to the workers to the customers, was black. So when I went in, everybody wondered why somebody from the first city had come to the grill of the second city. They fairly quickly realized that I wasn't actually part of the first city. I wasn't a congressman or a staffer or a judge, or anybody in the federal government who longed to be higher in the federal government. I was just the white guy with Tinny Byrd. Pretty soon that was just fine and nobody stared at me. But I still felt awkward. I was going to get another chance this morning. Byrd liked to meet me, or anybody else, there because usually those who wanted to give him any kind of difficulty were white.

I saw Byrd sitting in a booth in the back facing the entrance. He waved at me. I nodded to him and walked back to his booth. I was the only white person in the entire establishment. "Tinny, how you doing?" I said, shaking his hand.

"Sit down, Michael. Coffee?" He gestured to the waitress, who came over with a pot of coffee and poured a cup for me in a heavy porcelain mug.

I thanked her and said to Byrd, "What's this about?"

He was eating a large breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes. "You want something to eat? You know all this bullshit of cholesterol coming from eggs is just a conspiracy by the anti-egg people." He chuckled.

"If you believe Collins, everything's a conspiracy, right?"

He said, "Before I left your office last time, one of your other new attorneys, Lynn Carpenter, told me about Collins's reading list. He sounds like Mel Gibson in that movie with his eyes taped open."

"I don't think he was quite at that level. I don't want anything to eat. I had breakfast before I left."

"Good coffee though, huh? Best coffee in D.C. My opinion."

"No doubt. So why did you make me drive all the way into the dreaded District?"

The waitress delivered Tinny's side of bacon. He had clearly done this before as he had a specific approach to each egg and each piece of toast. Buttered a certain way, placed underneath the egg. "You remember our good Marine friend?"

"The one you been talking to?"

He nodded. "Well, I told you he said that he had some information about the meeting at Camp David. He said there was a document that would, as he put it, 'tell the tale about why the president was heading to Camp David that night'."

"What-"

Tinny put up his hand. "I've been beating on him to get it ever since. Absolutely refused. Wouldn't even hint at the content. So I told him to go back and read it again with understanding. Just read it and give me a call. Just tell me that it had nothing to do with this investigation and couldn't possibly have anything to do with the crash of Marine One. If he did that, and told me that"-Byrd sat back with his hands out palms up-"that'd be good enough for me."

He leaned forward across his plate of eggs. "But I knew that wouldn't be the case. If it's that important, how could he say it had nothing to do with the crash? Unless he just went all NTSB on us and blamed WorldCopter. But he's smarter than that. More honest. More suspicious." Byrd took three bites without saying a word.

I waited impatiently for him to continue. I didn't want to spoil the pace of the story, but this sounded ominous.

Byrd continued, "So this morning, this morning at five AM, he called me. Woke my ass up out of a deep sleep, a very pleasant, very warm deep sleep. I was pissed. I figured my mother had died or something. So I started screaming at the phone and it turned out it was our guy-"

"What's his name, Tinny?"

He went right on as if I hadn't made a sound. "When I finally realize it's him, I ask him whether he's going to tell me that his document had nothing to do with the investigation. He goes icy cold quiet on me, and then he said, 'It may, but I still can't give it to you.' You believe that shit?

"So I'm about to threaten him and he says he can't even talk about that document. But that he has something else for us. I say, 'Talk to me.' He says I'm to meet him in a McDonald's restaurant in the southwest part of the city. So I called you, than went to meet him. He sits down and hands me this folder." Byrd slid it across the table to me. "Go ahead."

I picked it up, but didn't open it. "So that document he can't talk about isn't in here."

"No."

"Damn, Tinny. How does he even have it? He's a Secret Service guy." Plus that Chris Thompson asshole said he didn't have it any more.

"Well, he said he was supposed to get it ready. That's all he'll say. It was his job to get it ready, and guard it. Everybody else was coming to Camp David, but he was already there. Others arrived before the president. But when they heard about the crash, everybody just left. He was still there with this document. Maybe I made a copy and Thompson doesn't know. Hell, I don't know really, it drives me crazy. He wouldn't give me the damn document, at least not yet-I'm not done with him. But he did give me some other stuff that's pretty damn interesting. Look."

I opened the envelope and looked at the contents. They were black-and-white photographs of people standing around. I looked up at Byrd. "What's all this?"

"The White House has numerous security cameras."

"I sure hope so."

"These are photographs from the security videos from the ballroom in the White House where there was a reception for the Japanese prime minister."

"And?"

"Well, one thing that I didn't know is that the commanding officer of HMX-1 is sometimes invited to these receptions. So you can see our boy, Colonel Collins, in these photographs."

"Okay, and?"

"Look at them. Can you think of a reason why the first lady and Collins would be whispering to each other. 'Cause I sure can't."

"Where do you see that?"

"Look on photographs three through seven. It shows them doing just a lot more than a casual greeting. She's talking to him and he's talking back. Now what would they have to talk about?"

That was a really good question. Could just have been casual conversation. Could be that they struck up something of a friendship on various flights. "Could be she's just friendly."

"You don't think Collins was playing around with the first lady, do you?"

"Hard to say. Nothing surprises me anymore. I've seen people do all kinds of stupid things. She's attractive, he's attractive, and the president was an ass. Who knows."

"Even if they were, you saying that would make Collins want to kill the president? Why? He's going to do what? Divorce his wife and marry the first lady? Never happen."

"No, hell, no. I'm not saying that."

Byrd moved forward and said in almost a whisper, "I'm just saying these are interesting photographs. You're the one with the big brain, you figure out what this is. You figure out why they're whispering in each other's ear and touching. I know why I whisper in a woman's ear, and I know why I accidentally brush against her ass."