None of the above, but I wasn't going to rock the boat now, though I wasn't sure where that boat was heading. Someplace turbulent, I thought, but I was beginning to mistrust my instincts. Or I just was having trouble believing them.

"You just want to be with a winner," he said, his eyes locking with mine.

I didn't speak. Something told me I should say something. Or maybe hold up a stop sign. But I didn't. Not in time, at least.

Not before he put his hand on my thigh.

81.

I WAS A WIDE RECEIVER IN FOOTBALL, NOT A DEFENSIVE back, despite the fact that I liked hitting people more than catching a ball, for one simple reason. I didn't like to backpedal. I didn't like the feeling of being off-balance as I pumped my arms and legs in reverse gear.

Maybe I'd missed my calling, because nobody, not an All-Pro cornerback in his prime, could have bounced off that couch and moved backward to the door of the hotel suite as quickly as I did.

Neither of us knew what to say. I thought that this was one of those actions-speak-louder-than-words moments. I'd made it pretty clear how I felt about what the governor had just done. I stood looking at the carpet. The governor, from what I could gather, had no idea how to proceed at this point.

"It seems to me, what we have here is a failure to communicate," he said with an accent, parroting the famous line, hoping to ease the tension. Or just ease his embarrassment. He tried to laugh at his line, but the whole thing had fallen flat. I was hoping a phone would ring or something.

"Listen," I finally said, "if I did something to make you-"

"No." He raised a hand. "No need. My fault. I'm just drunk, that's all. Let's just forget about this."

"That's not a problem."

The color had drained from his face. It seemed like the intoxication had drained from his body, too. He looked stone-cold sober and completely humiliated. The governor hadn't just been rebuffed; he'd just revealed something extremely personal about himself to me.

"I should go," I said, the understatement of the evening.

"Yeah, sure. We've got a big day tomorrow. The execution and all."

I didn't think I could subtract any more from the painful awkwardness, so I got my ass out of there. I kept a straight face as I passed by the governor's security detail and essentially held my breath until I made it to the elevator. I ran my hand through my hair a few times, as if that would somehow remove the memory from my brain, and propped myself against the side of the car.

I wanted nothing more than to go home and take a very hot shower and bury myself under my covers, but I had to deliver FeeBee to Lee Tucker, which made me think about how those last couple of minutes in the suite would sound on tape.

Given the lateness of the hour some of these evenings, Lee Tucker didn't tend to sit around Suite 410 in my building waiting for me. I knew that in advance and called his cell phone when I had a moment. We agreed to meet at my house, with Lee entering through the alley.

He was wearing a sweatshirt and torn jeans, a ripped green hat, and a plug of tobacco in his mouth. His eyes were puffy and his cheek bore the faint sign of a crease. He'd been roused from sleep recently-presumably when I called. He was catching his shut-eye when he could find it these days. His day wasn't ending here at midnight; it was just beginning. These days, as things were escalating in the campaign and the end of the investigation drew near, these guys were taking the F-Birds and immediately scrutinizing them.

"Anything good?" he asked.

I almost laughed. Tucker, I knew, would get a laugh out of the last few minutes of the recording.

"Not really," I said, trying to focus. "No great admissions. To listen to this, you'd think neither Madison Koehler nor the governor had any idea about Greg Connolly working for you or the real way he died. You'd think the governor hardly knew the name George Ippolito and only vaguely knew about Rick Harmoning getting jobs for his cronies in the administration."

"He's a slippery one," Tucker said.

"Yeah, but it's not so much that, Lee. This guy-it's not like he avoids the topic altogether, he just doesn't go into detail. And every time he gets near something hot, Madison's there for a roadblock."

"Right. Insulating the boss. Classic."

I wasn't as convinced as my FBI handler about the insulation Madison was giving Governor Snow. Tucker might be right; it was possible that Snow knew everything that was going on-that he directed it, in fact-and Madison was just making sure he didn't slip up in public. But I thought it was even money that Madison was the string puller, and she figured the governor didn't need to know the details. And Carlton Snow sure seemed like a guy who could live with that arrangement.

Tucker nodded. "Anything else?"

"Tomorrow, the unions are endorsing Snow. SLEU and the Laborers. I think eleven or eleven-thirty."

I saw the urgency in his eyes, the same thing I felt when I heard that news, so I was quick to tell him that the word I received was there would be no Ippolito appointment tomorrow. "Madison thought the timing would be too obvious."

"She said that? That it would be 'too obvious'?"

"Yeah, she did. That'll be a nice admission for you at trial."

He seemed pleased with that. He should be, from his perspective. Madison, from what anyone could tell, was the closest to the governor. She had the most goods to spill. They'd do the old hard-soft on her. They'd throw everything they had at her, trying to scare the shit out of her, and then offer her a decent plea bargain if she gave up everything she had on Governor Snow. She would likely be the star witness.

I knew that all along, of course, but it hadn't bothered me until now. I'd assumed that she had a role in Greg Connolly's murder, which eased my conscience considerably for helping record incriminating conversations about the Ippolito appointment and the jobs-for-endorsement thing with Rick Harmoning. But now I didn't like her for that murder, and it made the whole picture a little grayer for me.

"Anything else?" Tucker shook the F-Bird in his hand. He was impatient, eager to get back and dissect the contents of tonight's recordings.

"Nothing major," I said. I left out the part about Hector admitting to me tonight that he orchestrated the Columbus Street Cannibals' shakedown of local businesses for campaign contributions. Chris Moody was going to love that part when he listened to the F-Bird. It was like rubbing his face in his courtroom defeat. I didn't know Hector was going to say that. It wasn't my intention to rub it in Chris's face. But it was a nice fringe benefit.

"Okay, so-that's it?" Tucker asked.

I thought for a moment. "I might as well tell you, you're going to hear it, anyway," I said. "The governor made a pass at me tonight."

"He made a-" Lee Tucker stared at me with innocent, unassuming eyes. A burst of uncertain laughter escaped. "Seriously?" he asked. "What did he do?"

"He sidled up to me and put his hand on my knee."

Tucker put his hands on top of his head. He got a real rise out of that.

"My thigh, actually," I said. "The inside part. There was . . . no doubt."

That made him laugh harder. It was probably a combination of stress release and sleep deprivation, but soon he had to use the door to prop himself up. "You've gotta be . . . kidding me."

"I wish I was, believe me."

My cell phone buzzed. The caller ID said it was Hector Almundo. I could imagine why he was calling, but I wasn't in the mood. I was hoping Tucker would stop laughing sometime soon.

"Eight tomorrow?" Lee said to me, catching his breath, his face the color of a tomato.

"See you then."

I could hear his laughter as he walked down the alley. I allowed myself a brief chuckle, as well, more an acknowledgment of the bizarre than pure comedy. But the frivolity didn't last. I was getting close to the end of my run with the governor's people, and I had done a lot for the federal government, but I had completely struck out on my personal mission. I'd set my sights on two people-the governor and Madison-as the people behind Greg Connolly's murder, and I had turned up a goose egg.

Maybe I'd been wrong about Charlie not running the show that night when Greg and I were interrogated, with only one of us surviving. Maybe there wasn't someone above him. Maybe I was doing nothing more than serving as a good old-fashioned snitch without a higher purpose.

My cell phone rang again. Hector a second time. No doubt now-he'd heard from the governor. He was being called in to play intermediary, to damp down any brewing fire.

I watched the phone as it played out its four rings, then silence, then a slight quiver of the phone and a buzz telling me a second voicemail message had been left.

Then I decided to call Hector back.

82.

HECTOR ANSWERED ON THE SECOND RING. "HEY," HE said, clearly relieved to hear from me. "I talked to Carl. I heard about, y'know, what happened."

"I figured."

"I told you that you didn't have to stick around, didn't I?"

"Yeah, a little more specificity would've been nice, Hector."

"Carl feels terrible. He's really embarrassed."

"It's fine, Hector."

"Listen-this is something you can keep to yourself, right? I mean, you can keep this a secret?"

That, clearly, was the purpose of the call, not the apology.

"Who would I tell?"

"I know," he said, "but Jason, I'm serious here. This kind of thing gets out, it's over for Carl. He's finished."

In this day and age? "Oh, come on," I said, but I was reconsidering my reaction before I'd finished speaking. In many contexts, it seemed like it had become downright fashionable to swing from the other side. But, now that I thought about it, what was true for movie stars or baristas at Starbucks might not be true for governors of large Midwestern states. There wasn't exactly a sea full of outwardly gay politicians anywhere, actually. There had been the governor out east, Jersey I think, who'd held that press conference to out himself, but that presser was quickly followed by a resignation. Maybe that old line was still true, the only things that will end your political career are being caught in bed with a dead girl or a live boy.

"You have to tell me that you understand what I'm saying," said Hector.

"I thought I already did."

Silence. Then, "Tell me what you want, J. You can have whatever you want. Seriously."

"I want the vacancy on the supreme court," I said.

"The sup-" He spent a moment with that, to my surprise. "I mean, that's pretty-could we talk about the appellate court maybe?"

"Hector, I'm kidding. A Porsche 944, yellow with black interior, will be more than enough."

"I can't tell if you're being serious or not."

"I can see that."

"Jason. Jason. You understand, you're holding his whole political future in your-"

"I understand you're serious, Hector. I'm not going to mention this to anybody, all right? I'm probably more embarrassed than he is."

"I seriously doubt that."

In the background on Hector's side of the phone call, there was the sound of something breaking, a glass it sounded like, followed by cussing. Hector covered the phone and said something I couldn't make out, save for the scolding tone. The voice of the person cussing was a man's voice.

Right. Those of us on Hector's defense team had always suspected; Lightner had been absolutely sure of Hector's sexual preference. And now I had a much more informed idea why Hector was so close to Governor Snow. I'd always thought it was window dressing for Latino voters. Instead, it seemed they shared a common trait. I wondered if there was any kind of relationship between the two of them, but it was hard to imagine. More than likely, they were just two very public men who bonded over a shared, very private personal predilection.

Yesterday, I thought maybe I knew one gay politician; now I was sure I knew two.

"Hector, no bullshit, I wouldn't-"

My throat closed involuntarily. I couldn't finish the sentence. My heart started racing, my instincts outpacing my brain.

I asked myself a simple question, and I thought I knew the answer.

"You still there?" Hector said. "Hello?"

I braced my arm on the kitchen counter and played it out in my head.

Hector said, "I told Carl, if there was anyone I knew who could keep a secret, it was you. So I'm not gonna be wrong about that, am I? Jason. Am I gonna be wrong?"

I couldn't speak, or at least I couldn't focus on what Hector was saying. My mind was spinning now, trying to build a story, layer one fact upon another.

"Let's talk first thing in the morning? Okay, Counselor? Sound like a plan? Let's have breakfast at Apple Jacks, eight-thirty. Carl's going to make this up to you, Jason, I'll make sure of it. Okay?"

I didn't reply. I killed the cell phone and paced the kitchen, playing a game of what-if in my mind, recognizing holes in my logic but feeling in my gut that I could plug them up with additional information.

I tried it from different angles, questioning myself, playing devil's advocate, but I kept coming to the same conclusions. I was short on a couple of facts but I knew they were true, even if I didn't know. I was sure of it.

I felt my senses slowing, my mind shifting to a dead-alert focus. My limbs were trembling with rage.

What do you plan to do when you figure it out? Essie Ramirez had asked me.

So what's the plan, J? Joel Lightner had said. When you figure out who killed Ernesto? You going to kill that person?

I felt everything break down, all of the walls I'd built up crumbling like a house of cards. Maybe that was a good analogy. Maybe I'd been kidding myself that I could get past this. I thought I'd done so. I thought I'd moved on. I missed my wife and daughter, but I was putting it behind me. I told myself the guilt I felt would ultimately harden, would become a permanent scar but one that would fade with each passing day.

I was backsliding and I didn't care. How familiar and comfortable it felt, the self-destructive rage and bitterness. This is who you are. The guy who picked fights on the schoolyard with guys twice your size. The guy who blew his ride at State, his career in football, just so he could prove to the team captain how tough he was. Wanting to lash out and hurt, fully knowing the hurt would be returned twice over, wanting that hurt, seeking it out.

This is who you are.

I went upstairs to my bedroom. In the closet, top shelf, I found my old badge from the county attorney's office. I'd thought I lost it once and had to put in for a replacement. I'd paid a heavy price for doing so-a week's pay-the prosecutor's office not having a sense of humor about official badges making their way into the public domain, and when I found it later, my replacement already in my wallet, I figured I'd already paid for the right to keep the original issue. So I did, even when I left my job as an ACA and turned in my replacement badge.