I was sort of hoping he would say, "That ass Waterbury said what?… Why, a good man, a man who worked for me, a lifelong public servant, is dead under mysterious circumstances-of course you can take all the time you want or need." But he did not say that. He pointed at a short conference table near the window. "Is over there okay?"

Over there was fine, and we moved to the table. Tigerman sat at the head, Waterbury took the seat to his right, and Bian and I sat across from him.

Tigerman squirmed around in his seat for a moment, then leaned across the table and said, "Mark tells me one of our people died. How damned unfortunate."

Bian replied, "The employee's name was Clifford Daniels. He was a GS-12, and for the past three years he worked here, in your organization. We assumed you knew him."

"Yes… yes, maybe I recall the name. I'm sure I would recognize his face if I saw him." He removed his glasses from his nose and a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lens. "It's damned unfortunate, really…"

After a moment, Bian asked, "What's unfortunate, sir?"

"This organization-the Office of the Under Secretary…"

"What about it?"

"We have a total of some nine hundred people. As much as you would like to know all of these fine people…" He raised his glasses in a pedantic gesture of helplessness. "Well… how did he… this, uh, Mr. Daniels… how did he… you know?"

"That's still under investigation," I informed him.

Waterbury said, "Suicide. Blew his brains out."

"I see." Tigerman tapped his fingers on the table. "Again, Mr. Drummond, how can I… What?"

"We just have a few questions. Background stuff." I smiled. "Major Tran won't be reading you your rights or anything."

He smiled back. "So it's perfectly harmless?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

We stared at each other.

I said, "Two weeks ago, Daniels received a notice to appear next week before the House Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee. Were you… aware of this?"

"Well… let me think…" He then spent a brief moment pretending to think. "Yes… I believe I was. Several of our people have gotten these summons. It's damned unfortunate…"

"Unfortunate?"

"You know…" He looked at me, trying to calibrate how much bullshit to throw in my direction. "Washington is a rough-and-tumble town, always has been… but with this war, with the political polarization on the Hill, with the election heat, and of course the loud carping from the liberal media…"

I was beginning to suspect Albert Tigerman had some weird mental affliction that prevented him from completing a sentence.

I asked, "Can you tell us why the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee wanted to speak with Daniels?"

"I wish I could."

"You have no idea?"

"They don't share these things with me. No."

"But, well… you must at least know the type of work Daniels was doing here?" How's that for smooth?

He turned to Waterbury. "Refresh my memory, Mark. What office was he assigned to?"

"Near East and South Asia. A division chief."

"Ah… yes. Then… well, I suppose he was working on something to do with our war in Iraq."

"But you can't tell me what, specifically, Daniels was working on?"

"Let me… uh, a lot of actions flow through my in-box…" He looked thoughtful, then pained, and concluded, "I can't really say, exactly."

I lost it a little bit and said, "How about inexactly?"

He shrugged. I was really striking out here.

I looked at Bian, who was staring tightly at Tigerman's face. She said, "Daniels previously worked in DIA. Did you know him during those years?"

"What years would those be, Major?"

"Late eighties, throughout the nineties."

"Well… I wouldn't say… after all, I've met a lot of DIA types. That was a long time ago."

"Of course, sir. But it's atypical for career DIA people-intelligence specialists-to end up working in policy jobs, is it not?"

"It's not unheard of. Perhaps he had regional expertise."

"In fact, he was for many years the DIA desk officer for Iraq."

"Was he? Well, there you have it. The past few years, Iraq has become… if I might borrow a business euphemism… a growth industry in this building." He smiled. "I may even have approved his transfer myself."

"But you don't remember approving it?"

He shrugged. "Maybe one of our assistant secretaries or division chiefs knew him and requested him." Again he pointed at his in-box, which overflowed with memoranda and folders. "I don't… well, to be blunt, I can't remember everything I sign, can I?"

My turn. "We met with his ex-wife this afternoon."

"Ah. The poor woman. She must be devastated."

"She high-fived me."

"Oh…"

"In fact, I'm a little surprised by your reaction to this tragic news."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Mrs. Daniels informed us that you and Cliff spent a great deal of time together during the first Gulf War. She claimed that, afterward, you and he stayed in almost continuous contact. In her words, you were close friends."

He looked surprised. "Friends?"

I forgot. This was Washington. So to help him with this foreign concept, I explained, "People you hang out with and remember afterward. People whose death causes you to grieve."

This annoyed him, as it was intended to do, but he kept his composure. "Does she recall me ever visiting their house? Maybe she came to my house, met my wife…?"

I did not reply.

He said, "In this town, it's not uncommon for lower-level officials to, you know, embellish their careers with their spouses. Or for wives to exaggerate their husband's importance." He winked at me. "My own wife thinks I'm the Secretary of Defense. Promise you won't disabuse her."

He smiled, and I smiled back. Boy, were we having fun.

After a moment, he blurted, "You've made me curious, Mr. Drummond. What exactly is it you think this man was working on, and how might that be connected to his death? Or to me?"

Bingo. Cliched as it might sound, the guilty ones always fish. He needed to know what we knew; specifically, whether or how we could implicate him. De facto, the man was worried about something, and I spent a moment thinking about what that something might be. Well, for one thing, we could access the phone records for the Daniels household and see how often they spoke, and how far back their relationship extended. Also we could do a little background digging into how exactly Clifford Daniels got transferred from DIA to this office.

But so what? We could possibly prove that Tigerman misled us and, possibly, plumb the depths of his evasions. But evading the truth in Washington is hardly a crime; it's the ticket to higher office.

I looked at Mr. Tigerman and informed him, "I'm afraid our five minutes are up." I stood. "Thank you for your time, sir. We'll be sure to get back to you when it becomes necessary."

This did not sound like a threat, but it was fair warning, and Tigerman heard what I was saying. He stood, as did Waterbury and Bian. Tigerman studied my face a moment, then said, "I believe you need a little free advice, Mr. Drummond."

It was irresistible, and I said, "Okay, why don't you tell me who murdered Clifford Daniels?"

Tigerman suddenly looked very unhappy.

And Waterbury finally had the opportunity to flex his prosecution complex, and barked, "That's enough out of you, Drummond." He looked at Tigerman, to be sure this display of bootlicking was noted, and added, "The police are convinced Daniels killed himself. But Drummond has some wild and incredible fantasy that he might have been murdered. I ordered him not to raise this issue inside this office."

Tigerman produced a forced smile. "It's all right, Mark." He said to me, "You believe he was murdered? Why?"

"Just say I believe in the old saying."

He raised an eyebrow. "What saying would that be?"