"We don't play it that way, Sean. This is the FBI."

"Wow… the FBI. After the President's dead, be sure to put that on your resume."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"Nor is there a need for excessive moralism. Play this one any Way that works, Jennie."

"If one of the murder weapons turns up in his home, we'd be… in fact, the whole case would be-"

I reminded her, "You don't have a case to protect. A team of possibly professional killers is hunting the President of the United States-focus on the problem at hand."

In response to her still hesitant expression, I added, "These people aren't playing by the rules. These people know no rules. In this game, color outside the lines, or you lose."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jennie played it the way that worked, and the powers that be gave us the search warrant for Jason Barnes's home in Springfield.

Springfield was a mere eight miles away, but it was rush hour, Washington traffic, and speed was critical. Jennie therefore ordered a helicopter, and voila, one dropped into the parking lot, we climbed aboard, and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The pilot followed 1-95 South to the Springfield exit, turned right, and we flew at low altitude over the endless patchwork of red-brick townhouse communities that is Springfield.

I haven't got a clue how the pilot picked the right complex, but he obviously did, judging by the several dark sedans that had cordoned off a landing pad and the agent who approached Jennie and me as we alit on the tarmac.

It turned out he was Special Agent Mark Butterman, the case officer, mid-fifties, long and thin, salt-and-pepper hair, leathery face, a suburbanized Marlboro man in a gray suit. He walked and spoke with a confidence I hoped wasn't misplaced, was too old to be wet behind the ears, and I recalled Jennie mentioned that he was handpicked because he was one of the Bureau's best and brightest, so somebody had a head on their shoulders. This was not the right opportunity for some youthful, overeager, promising stud to show he could cut it (or not). But it happens.

Jennie introduced us, and we shook. I knew Butterman was having a particularly crappy day, though he remained friendly and appeared unperturbed by the pressure.

Anyway, Agent Butterman knew time was precious, and he launched immediately into a fast-paced update on the progress of the investigation. To wit-hundreds of samples and particles had been vacuumed and collected from the Belknap's house, and forensics was concentrating all its resources on that haul, though there had been no significant breakthroughs. Nor, from his tone did he expect any.

It turned out Mrs. Belknap was a big la-di-da in the D.C social circuit, and her home was an endless gathering place for the rich and pompous-book clubs, political fund-raisers, and what have you. Throw into that mix some fifteen Secret Service agents who roamed freely around the home, two maids, three yard people, repairmen, and whoever, and enough fingerprints, hair samples, fiber samples, and DNA traces had been lifted to populate New Jersey.

On a more upbeat note, my tip regarding the disturbances in the garden had panned out; they were footprints, three different shoe sizes and types, two male, and one that appeared to belong to a tiny-footed, narrow-shoed female.

Also the preliminary ballistics tests were wrapped up, indicating that four different, though identical, caliber pistols were used, implying either a quartet of killers or a remarkably talented duo of ambidextrous shooters. Which landed us at the present.

Regarding the here and now, he informed Jennie and me, "The super let us in. Seven agents are inside right now. It's small. Barnes lives alone. Shouldn't take long."

The clock was ticking, and he led us to, and then inside the townhouse, a modest two-floored, brick-fronted, faux colonial job. I wandered around for a moment.

Butterman was correct; the place was small, though not cramped, and for a bachelor pad, almost comically neat and tidy. The furniture was a sort of mix of modern and traditional, with colors and patterns that seemed to match the curtains, that matched the wall colors and the carpet, and so forth. Actually, there were no colors or patterns-everything was pure white. I said to Jennie, "What's that smell?"

"Lemon Pledge."

"Lemon what?"

"Scented furniture pol- Oh… you're kidding."

Right. Also I was making a point. Regular guys don't live like this, if you know what I mean. Jason's furniture didn't look cheap or expensive, and the art pieces were framed posters-a European cityscape I couldn't identify an old movie poster I also didn't recognize-that indicated nothing about the tastes of the inhabitant, beyond a serious preference for Wal-Mart. Jennie noted, "He doesn't seem to live above his means."

Butterman concurred with her assessment and informed us, "He rents. Nine hundred and twenty a month, according to the super. Cheap for this area. He drives a used Mazda 323 he bought two years ago for eight grand."

I suggested, "But how he lives today might not be how he wants to live tomorrow."

"The ambition of every criminal mind," Butterman agreed. He added, "No liquor in the house, not even a Bud in the fridge. A teetotaler. No porn, no old magazines or even newspapers. He doesn't even have a TV And if he keeps weapons here, they're gone. The guy lives like a monk."

Actually, as we wandered around, I was starting to wonder if anybody actually did live here. The place was clean as a whistle, so sterile and pristine I expected a Realtor to pop up from behind a couch. To the right was a tiny living room, connected to an even tinier dining area, and what is termed an efficiency kitchen-ordinarily an oxymoron, though in Jason's case it proved to be a stunning understatement. The counters were clean, bare, and scrubbed, and I detected no clutter, no dirty dishes, not even watermarks in the sink. I peeked inside his fridge and everything was dress-right-dress, a perfectly linear parade ground of milk cartons, yogurts, salad dressings, a cornucopia of low-cal, low-fat, and low-flavor goodies. I felt guilty in the midst of all this order, cleanliness, and health consciousness.

Four guys and gals in blue windbreakers were milling around the ground floor, not aimlessly, though clearly nobody appeared to be sure what they were searching for. This was my bright idea and I didn't have a clue what to look for. There would be something, though. Jason Barnes was not the benighted saint his boss thought he was. I was sure of it. Maybe.

Jennie said to me, "Upstairs."

So up we went, and at the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway that twisted to the right, and three doors. We opened the first door and it was a tiny bathroom that smelled like a pine forest, with precisely folded, freshly laundered towels, a spotless mirror, and a toilet you could eat off, were one inclined to do such a stupid thing. Did anybody actually live in this house?

I stepped inside and looked around a moment. A narrow closet was hidden behind the door, and it struck me that this would be the perfect hidey-hole for Jason's darkest secrets and fiitliiest habits. I swung it open and peeked inside, expecting a blow-up doll to fall out, a corpse, something. There were six shelves, and not a square inch of free space. Laid out on the shelves was a veritable armory of medicines, nasal sprays, antibacterial soaps and shampoos, skin care ointments, and various medical salves, balms, preventatives and devices, from enemas to ear wax cleaning solvents. There must've been three hundred bottles and vials and tubes, all neatly arranged, a harem of things to make sure you smelled good, slew galaxies of germs, and never experienced a constipated moment, or even ringworm.