Battaglia's exterior was ironclad. It was rare he engaged in a conversation about emotions, but he was keenly aware of the personal toll this job could take when a tragedy hit close to home. Occasionally, when I needed it most, he responded with a question or piece of advice that suggested he knew exactly the depth of my own turmoil.

"Maybe I'll stop second-guessing myself in a couple of weeks. Right now it's tearing my guts out. Paige Vallis's death, the prospects of the boy's future-it's all ugly. You get anything for me?"

"Promise me you'll watch out for yourself, Alex. When this is resolved in a week or two, take some real time off and-"

"I've just had a two-week vacation, Paul."

"Hardly. Prepping for trial. Why don't you and Jake get out of town for a while?"

I nodded my head. Battaglia had such a sixth sense about people, and now I knew he was fishing to see whether our relationship had stabilized, to check on whether I was getting the appropriate support on the home front. "Good idea, boss. You hear back from the DA in Virginia?"

The cigar was wedged back in place, and the conversation was carried on out of the other side of Battaglia's mouth. "No question that case file his assistant sent you was whitewashed. National security and all that bullshit. You wonder how some of these guys get elected in the first place."

He looked down at notes he had scribbled during a telephone conversation with the prosecutor about the burglary case during which Paige Vallis had confronted the intruder in her father's house.

"Let's see," he went on. "The man who was killed was named Ibrahim Nassan."

"The cops told me that Saturday night."

"Egyptian-born. Twenty-eight years old. Been in the States less than two years."

"Was he really al Qaeda?"

"He spent some time in one of the training camps. Only way they know is that they searched his apartment after his death. Rented a single room in a boardinghouse in Washington. Pretty bare, except for a computer. Found some e-mails that connected him to some other known terrorists, but nothing to indicate active involvement in any trouble here in the States."

"Any family?"

"No," Battaglia said. "One of those kids who came from an upper-class background. Parents were merchants, father was educated at Oxford. Rebelled somewhere along the way, for no obvious reason."

"So, this intrusion into Paige's father's house is really linked to the work Mr. Vallis was doing for the CIA?"

"Well, they never established that, either. An educated guess. You know nothing was taken during the burglary, right?"

"Yeah, 'cause the perp never got out of the house," I said. "Do they know what he was looking for?"

"They claim not to have any idea." Battaglia shuffled his notes and kept reading. "Victor Vallis. Career Foreign Service. Sounds like he'd been posted all over Europe and the Middle East."

"He was in Cairo, right? I know Paige had talked about that."

"Yes. Twice, actually."

"Any connection to the CIA?" I asked.

"They haven't made any so far."

"When was Vallis there? In Egypt, I mean."

"Where's Chapman? His military history might come in handy for this," Battaglia said, referring to his papers.

"I'll be sure to tell him you said so. He's in my office."

"The second time Victor Vallis was in Cairo was from 1950 to 1954. That covers the period of the coup, when the king was deposed and General Nasser took control of the Egyptian government."

"The king?"

"Farouk. The last king of Egypt."

"What was Vallis's position at the time?" I asked.

"Political advisor to the American delegation. Still pretty junior."

"How about the first time he was stationed there?"

"In the mid 1930s. Probably his entry-level job after college," Battaglia said. "But he wasn't working for the government then."

"What did he do?"

"He was a tutor. The royal tutor. You're too young to know anything about Farouk," the district attorney told me. "He was the playboy pasha-a spoiled prince who grew up to be a corrupt monarch and a Nazi sympathizer. I hated his politics."

"And Victor Vallis taught him?"

"For almost three years, when young Farouk was living in the palace in Alexandria, and later in Cairo; Vallis made his home with the family and taught the prince all his studies. Foreign languages, world history, geography."

"So did the district attorney ever get any closer to figuring out what the feds thought this burglary was about?" I asked. "Foreign intrigue? Terrorism?"

"He says the file was still an open case. Nobody knows. They looked for connections between Victor Vallis and the Nassan family, but if the CIA knew of any, they sure didn't tell the local prosecutor."

"Thanks for making the call," I said, as he handed me his notes of the conversation. "I'll have Laura type these up."

I headed back across the main corridor to my office, where Chapman was talking with my assistant, Sarah Brenner. "Are the FBI agents gone?"

"Yeah," Mike answered.

"Talk about feeling stupid. Were you able to give Ms. Chesnutt a 'scrip of Harry Strait?"

"Not a very good one," he said, repeating it to me.

"Doesn't sound any better than mine."

Sarah had a different perspective. "Sounded to me like you were describing Peter Robelon."

"Or the defendant, Andrew Tripping," I said. "Totally fungible white men. They're not going to get very far on what I told them."

"Well, forget about Harry Strait for the moment and come on down to my office. I was just telling Mike that uniformed cops brought in an acquaintance of Queenie Ransome's you need to talk to."

"Kevin Bessemer?" I asked.

"Not quite so lucky as that. But I think you'll want to question this guy."

"Where'd they find him?"

"Inside Ransome's apartment earlier today."

"A break-in?" Mike asked.

"No. That's what makes it so interesting. He let himself in with a key."

20

"Is he under arrest?" I asked the cop who was standing outside the door of Sarah's office, guarding the wiry young man who sat inside.

"Not exactly. We didn't know what to charge him with."

"Burglary?"

"He's got a key, ma'am. Says he knows the tenant."

"The tenant's dead."

"Yeah, but he claims she gave him permission to be in the apartment."

"Not lately, I don't imagine," I said.

"That's why we brought him down here. You guys can decide whether or not to charge him."

"Was the crime scene tape still over the door?"

"Yes, ma'am. He just lifted it and went inside, apparently."

"Didn't your sergeant think that's enough for a trespass?"

"He says the city don't pay him to think. That's why they got lawyers."

I waited for Chapman and then entered Sarah's small office. "My name is Alexandra Cooper," I said. "This is Mike Chapman. He's a detective and I'm an assistant district attorney."

"I'm Spike Logan." He had been resting his head on his crossed arms, on a corner of Sarah's desk. He stretched and yawned. "Wanna tell me what this is about?"

"Happy to," Mike said. "Then we got a few questions for you."

"Am I in custody?"

Mike looked to me for a decision.

"No," I said.

"Or do you mean not yet?" Logan said. "I'm free to leave?" He stood up, as though to challenge my response.

I stepped back to let him pass.

"That's fair," he said, reseating himself.

"We'd like to talk to you about McQueen Ransome," I said, "maybe starting with what you were doing in her apartment this morning."

"She invited me there. I had an appointment with her. Eleven o'clock."

"What kind of appointment and when did you make it?"

"Every third Monday of the month. Been doing it since the beginning of the year. Look, these cops told me Queenie's dead. Somebody killed her. I've probably got more questions for you than you've got for me."