He continued up the chain of command, to the president of WorldCopter U.S. He was persuaded, but said it wasn't his call. He said we needed to get a hold of Jean Claude. Jean Claude was staying in a private home that had been rented in the hills of Annapolis for $10,000 a week. The mansion was owned by some mysterious businessman who had some indirect relationship to a shipping line that no one seemed to know the name of. Jean Claude's phone was off. Marcel grew more frustrated. He called everyone he knew, including Jean Claude's personal secretary in France. She was sound asleep when he called and was annoyed when he awoke her. When he explained the importance of what he was doing, she happily agreed to contact Jean Claude and seemed to have some other secret number for him. We waited and stared at the brightly lit Marine One helicopter sitting behind the Plexiglas wall, hoping against hope that we'd be able to test Bradley's theory.

Marcel's phone rang. He spoke in French and seemed pleased. He handed his phone to the head of security, who stood as he listened to the president of WorldCopter SA tell him to allow access to this group even though it would mean losing the use of this helicopter as Marine One. The guard threw the bolt electronically and pulled the heavy Plexiglas door toward him. We walked inside the restricted area, very aware of the intense lights and scrutiny that were on us. The security guard had called one of the other security guards, who had brought a video camera and was filming everything we did. Fine with me.

Bradley quickly grabbed a ladder and pulled it over to the helicopter. He turned to Marcel. "Which blade was put on more recently?"

Marcel said, "I will check. Do you want to take off the end cap?"

"The end cap and the tip weights."

"I'll check the maintenance records and bring the tools."

Marcel disappeared toward the back of the hangar, reviewed the maintenance records, and came back with two hand tools. "The blue blade was replaced forty days before the crash." Marcel looked at the rotor hub, saw the blue marking on one of the blades, and put the ladder underneath the end of it. He labored up the ladder and removed the Allen screws that held on the end cap. He pulled it off, handed it down to me. I set it on the floor, well out of the way. I looked up and saw the tip weights properly placed with a large nut holding them onto a bolt. Marcel loosened the nut, pulled it off, and removed the four tip weights that had been attached to the blade when it had been balanced in France. Marcel handed the tip weights to Bradley and climbed down from the ladder. Marcel asked, "Is that all we need?"

"That's it," Bradley said excitedly. "Let's go back to my car."

We exited the sterile environments of the hangared Marine One and waved to the security guards as we hurried outside to the Pilot. Bradley set up his portable lab and put a small block of metal on the tray. He put the tip weight on top of it and picked up a chisel and a hammer.

Marcel was horrified. "You're not going to destroy it, are you?"

"I'm going to break it open." Bradley raised his hammer and cracked the chisel into the tip weight, breaking it in half.

I got no sleep that night. And contrary to what I had told Brightman, I wasn't going to go meet Bradley the next morning. He was coming to my house. I still couldn't take the chance that the office was bugged and that Hackett would know what I was doing before I pulled the trigger. Bradley had agreed to stay at the first hotel he encountered, pay cash, and come to my house for breakfast at eight o'clock the following morning. He was to keep the tip weights in his possession at all times, including inside the hotel room. He was not to leave them in his car, and he was to have a separate bag for the tip weights taken from the Marine One at the WorldCopter hangar.

I was up banging out a new outline on my computer before the sun even hinted at the horizon. I stayed there while Debbie prepared breakfast for the kids, got them ready for school, and they left.

He arrived at eight. I let him in, brought him to the den, and got him a cup of coffee. He looked confident and rested. I felt confident and unrested. We walked through his testimony. He understood. He was ready to go. One pocket held the tip weight from the crashed Marine One, the other pocket held the tip weights from the intact Marine One.

I heard the front door open, which was a surprise because Debbie always came in through the back after she parked her car. I glanced out through the den's French doors and saw Debbie. She looked concerned. I excused myself.

"What's up?" I asked.

Debbie looked at the front door and put her car keys in her purse. "There's a woman standing in front of our house who said she needs to see you."

I rolled my eyes. "Reporter."

"She looks very unsure of herself, very much out of her element. She kept looking around."

I walked toward the front door. "What does she look like?"

"Black, pretty; early fifties."

I looked out the thin window next to the front door. I saw the woman Debbie had described. I'd never seen her before. I checked my watch. It was nine fifteen. The trial was back under way, any journalists would be there. "I'll see what this is about. Did you talk to her?"

"She said she needed to talk to Mike Nolan. I told her I was your wife, and she said she could only talk to you."

"Come with me."

We walked out of the front of our house and went to the woman on the sidewalk. She looked uneasy as I approached her. "Hi, I'm Mike Nolan. My wife says you need to see me."

She nodded. She handed me an envelope. I looked into her eyes, but she wouldn't look at me.

"What is this?" I took the envelope and saw that my name was written on the outside, in what was probably a man's handwriting.

"He said to give this to you."

"Who did?"

"My husband."

I looked at Debbie, but neither of us had any idea what this woman was talking about. "Who's your husband?"

"Tinny."

I felt a shot of fear. "You're Tinny Byrd's wife?"

"Yes."

Debbie glanced at me and reached to her. "Won't you please come in?"

Mrs. Byrd nodded her head.

As Debbie walked next to her, she asked, "What's your first name?"

"Cherie."

We went into the house and I signaled to Bradley that it would be a minute. He continued to study some documents that he had spread on his lap. We took Cherie Byrd to the kitchen, where she sat at our table. Debbie poured her a cup of coffee, which she took gladly. I asked her, "Did you drive from D.C. this morning?"

"Yes."

"How'd you find where I lived?"

"Tinny had your address on that envelope. I just used MapQuest."

"Thanks for coming. What made you want to come find me?"

"Tinny was mur-"

"I know. I'm so sorry. It's so… horrible. Police have any leads?"

"Nothing. He was working on a lot of cases. It could be anything." She clutched her purse to her chest, then looked into my eyes for the first time. "It could have been this case. I always told him something like this was going to happen. He wouldn't listen to me. He just kept doing it, living his life, thinking he was bulletproof and smarter than everybody-"

"I'm really sorry. He was a good friend of mine. I can't believe I never met you."

"I know. He spoke of you."

"So why did you come see me?"

She nodded her head and relaxed slightly. "I've been going through his things. One of them was our wall safe. He kept it in his closet, and I never went into it. I didn't even know what was in it. I'd forgotten the combination to it because I'd only done it once when he put it in. But I remembered he wrote the combination on the bottom of the drawer of my dresser with a black-ink pen so if I ever needed to get into that safe, all I ever needed to do was turn over my drawers. That's what he said, just turn over your drawers and you can get it. So I remembered that and found the combination and opened that wall safe yesterday. There were all kinds of things in there that I don't have any idea what they were. Some things I did know and didn't want to know. Like a gun and some bullets and some cash money. Then I found this envelope. He had a yellow sticky on it that looked pretty new. The sticky said-hold on, I've brought it with me." She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded yellow sticky. She tried to unfold it, but the adhesion was too strong. I looked at it and read, "If anything happens to me, give this to Mike Nolan."