"His suicide note said that he was sorry," Alex interjected, shooting Simpson an angry look. "Any idea what he was sorry about?"

Jeffries dropped back onto her chair. "The FBI didn't tell me about that."

"They were under no obligation to tell you, but I thought you would want to know. Any idea what he might have meant?"

"No."

"Was he depressed about anything? Any change in emotions?" Alex asked.

"Nothing like that."

"The gun he used was a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver. It was registered to him. You ever see it around?"

"No, but I knew he'd purchased a gun. There'd been a couple of break-ins in his neighborhood. He got it for protection. I hate guns personally. After we were married, I was going to make him get rid of it."

"When was the last time you spoke with him?" Alex asked.

"Yesterday afternoon. He said he'd call me later if he got the chance. But he never did."

She looked like she might start bawling again, so Alex spoke quickly. "No idea what he was working on lately? Anything he might have mentioned, even just in pa.s.sing?"

"I told you, he didn't talk about work to me."

"No money problems, ex-girlfriend, things like that?"

She shook her head.

"And what were you doing last night between the hours of eleven and two?" Simpson asked.

Jeffries looked stonily at her. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"I think the question is pretty straightforward."

"You said Pat killed himself, so why does it matter where I I was?" was?"

Alex cut in. He was finding his partner's interrogation technique very annoying. "Technically, it's a homicide, which can include anything from suicide to murder. We're just trying to establish the whereabouts of everyone involved. We'll be asking lots of people that same question. Don't read anything more than that into it."

Slowly, Anne Jeffries' defiant look dissolved. "Well, I left work around six-thirty. Traffic, as usual, was a b.i.t.c.h. It took me an hour and ten minutes to crawl a few miles. I made some phone calls, had a bite to eat and went back down to Old Town to meet with the woman who's making my wedding dress." Here she paused and let out a sob. Alex handed her a fresh tissue and nudged the gla.s.s of water she'd earlier poured for herself closer to the woman. She gulped from it and continued. "I finished with her around nine-thirty. That's when I got a call from a girlfriend who lives in Old Town, and we met for a drink at Union Street Pub. We were there for about an hour or so, just chitchatting. Then I drove home. I was in bed by midnight."

"Your friend's name?" Simpson asked, and wrote it down.

The two agents rose to leave, but Jeffries stopped them.

"His . . . his body. They didn't tell me where it is."

"I would imagine it's at the D.C. morgue now," Alex said quietly.

"Can I . . . I mean would it be possible for me to see him?"

"You don't have to do that. They've already positively identified him," Simpson added.

"That's not what I meant. I . . . I just want to see him." She paused and said, "Is he, is he terribly disfigured?"

Alex answered, "No. I'll see what I can do. By the way, is his family nearby?"

"They live in California. I've spoken with them; they're flying in with Pat's brother." She gazed up at him. "We were really very happy together."

"I'm sure you were," Alex said as he walked out the door with Simpson.

Outside, he faced off with his partner. "Is that what the h.e.l.l you call effective interrogation techniques?"

Simpson shrugged. "I was the bad cop and you were the good cop. It worked pretty well. She's probably telling the truth. And she doesn't know zip."

Alex was about to respond when his phone rang.

He listened for a minute and then turned to Simpson. "Let's go." He started walking off fast.

"Where to?" she asked, hustling after him.

"That was Lloyd from the FBI. They think they just found out what Patrick Johnson was sorry about."

CHAPTER 21.

WHEN ALEX AND SIMPSON arrived at Patrick Johnson's Bethesda residence, they were surprised, for two reasons. One, there was no visible police presence, not even a marked vehicle or yellow police tape. A couple of Suburbans in the driveway were the only evidence of someone being on-site. arrived at Patrick Johnson's Bethesda residence, they were surprised, for two reasons. One, there was no visible police presence, not even a marked vehicle or yellow police tape. A couple of Suburbans in the driveway were the only evidence of someone being on-site.

The second surprise was the house itself.

Alex stopped on the front sidewalk, put his hands on his hips and surveyed the single-family home. It wasn't huge, but it wasn't attached to another house either, and the upscale neighborhood was within walking distance of the thriving Bethesda downtown area. Alex said, "At Johnson's pay grade I thought we'd be looking at a one-bedroom apartment like his fiancee. h.e.l.l, this thing's got a yard. yard. With With gra.s.s gra.s.s."

Simpson shook her head. "When I got a.s.signed to WFO and didn't know squat about the D.C. housing sticker shock, I priced some places around here just for the h.e.l.l of it. This is over a million dollars, easy."

Inside, Agent Lloyd was waiting for them. Alex said, "Where'd he get the money for this place?"

Lloyd nodded. "And it's not just the house. There's a new Infiniti QX56 in the garage. Runs over fifty grand. And we found his other car. He left it on the Virginia side of the river before he took his last swim. Lexus sedan, another forty grand."

"Selling secrets?" Simpson asked.

"No. We think it's a more reliable source of illegal cash."

"Drugs," Alex said quickly.

"Come up and see for yourself."

As they were being led upstairs, Alex mentioned to Lloyd, "Bureau securing crime scenes differently these days?"

"Special marching orders on this one."

"Let me guess. Since it involves NIC, discretion is valued over all other things."

Lloyd didn't answer but he did smile.

In the master bedroom closet there was a set of drop-down stairs leading to an attic access panel. On the floor of the closet they saw bundles of something stacked in clear plastic.

"c.o.ke?" Simpson asked.

Lloyd shook his head. "Heroin. That brings ten times the return c.o.ke does."

"And his fiancee knew nothing? Where'd she think he got all this money?"

"I haven't asked her that yet because we interviewed her before we found this. But I will," Lloyd added.

"How'd you get onto the drug angle so fast?" Alex asked.

"When we saw where he lived, we ran Johnson's name through SEISINT and pulled up the property records on his purchase of this place. He bought it last year for one point four million and put a half million in cash down from a financial source we haven't been able to trace. He financed the cars and then paid them off soon after, again using a bank account we can't track. I knew it had to be an inheritance, drugs or selling secrets. The point of least resistance was the drugs. So I pulled in a dog from DEA. It started barking its head off when it went into the closet. We didn't find anything until we saw the panel to the attic. We lifted the dog up there and bingo! He had it stacked between the rafters with insulation over it. "

"Well, I guess other things being equal, it's better he was selling drugs than selling his country country down the river," Simpson commented wryly. down the river," Simpson commented wryly.

"I'm not even sure he had access to secrets worth selling," Lloyd replied. "And now we don't have to go down that road. But this is going to be a big enough mess as it is. h.e.l.l, I could write the Post Post headline myself: 'Carter Gray, Intelligence or Drug Czar?'" headline myself: 'Carter Gray, Intelligence or Drug Czar?'"

It seemed to Alex his FBI counterpart was looking forward to every last bit of dirt thrown up on the only federal law enforcement agency that rivaled his in terms of budget and bite. He said, "Now the question is, did he kill himself because he was a drug dealer getting married to a respectable woman and suddenly couldn't handle it, or did his druggie a.s.sociates kill him and try to make it look like a suicide?"

Lloyd said, "I'd vote for him taking his own life. He died on the spot where he and his fiancee had their first date. Drug dealers would've just popped a new hole in his head while he was sitting in his car or sleeping in his bed. The whole murder-suicide subterfuge is way too sophisticated for those types."

Alex considered this, then said, "Did you find anything else connected to the drugs? Transaction journal, list of drop-off spots, computer files, anything like that?"

"We're still looking. But I doubt he would've been careless enough to leave stuff like that around. We'll let you know what we do find so you can close your file out."

As Alex and Simpson walked back to the car, Simpson glanced at her partner. "Well, there goes the pain in your a.s.s that you didn't really need. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Alex said curtly.

"But a drug dealer at NIC, they're still going to take heat over that."

"That's how the cards fall sometimes."

"So back to WFO?"

He nodded. "I'll shoot off my e-mail upstairs, follow with a more detailed one when friend Lloyd fills in the rest of the s.p.a.ces, and we go back to busting counterfeiters and standing in doorways looking to catch a bullet."

"Sounds like a thrill."

"I hope you believe that, because you're going to be doing it for a long time."

"I'm not complaining. I joined the ranks, n.o.body pushed me here." She didn't sound very convincing, though.

"Look, Jackie, I usually mind my own business, but here's a piece of real honest advice for a healthy career with the Service from someone who's seen it all."

"I'm listening."

"Do your share of the c.r.a.p work, no matter who's looking out for you upstairs. One, it'll make you a better agent. Two, you'll leave the Service with at least one friend."

"Oh, really, who's that?" Simpson said irritably.

"Me."

CHAPTER 22.

AT THE NIC HELIPAD GRAY boarded a Sikorsky VH-60N chopper. It was the same model the president used as Marine One, although in the coming years it would be replaced by a Lockheed Martin-built version. Gray usually rode the Sikorsky to the White House for his meetings with Brennan, causing some understandably anonymous souls to snidely dub it "Marine One and a Half." However, there was one distinct difference between how Gray and Brennan were ferried on choppers. When the president rode in from Andrews Air Force Base, Camp David or elsewhere, there were three identical VH-60Ns in the convoy. Two served as decoys, giving any would-be a.s.sa.s.sin with a surface-to-air missile only a one-in-three shot of hitting his intended target. Carter Gray was on his own in that regard. After all, there were numerous cabinet secretaries, but just one president. boarded a Sikorsky VH-60N chopper. It was the same model the president used as Marine One, although in the coming years it would be replaced by a Lockheed Martin-built version. Gray usually rode the Sikorsky to the White House for his meetings with Brennan, causing some understandably anonymous souls to snidely dub it "Marine One and a Half." However, there was one distinct difference between how Gray and Brennan were ferried on choppers. When the president rode in from Andrews Air Force Base, Camp David or elsewhere, there were three identical VH-60Ns in the convoy. Two served as decoys, giving any would-be a.s.sa.s.sin with a surface-to-air missile only a one-in-three shot of hitting his intended target. Carter Gray was on his own in that regard. After all, there were numerous cabinet secretaries, but just one president.

Traditionally, it was only Marine One that was allowed to land on the White House grounds. It was Brennan who'd authorized Gray to travel this way, over the very heated protests of the Secret Service. It saved Gray what could have been a tortuous daily commute from Loudoun County, and the intelligence czar's time was very valuable. However, there were still grumblings at the Secret Service. Understandably, they didn't care to see anything flying at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue unless it had the president on board.

At a speed of 150 knots the ride was quick and uneventful, though Gray was too busy to have noticed. He strode across the White House grounds knowing full well that the countersnipers arrayed on the surrounding rooftops were drawing practice beads on his wide head. Inside the West Wing Gray nodded at people he knew. Until 1902 greenhouses stood on this plot of ground. That's when Teddy Roosevelt finally decided he needed a private place, away from his numerous children and their large coterie of pets, in order to competently conduct his business as the nation's leader. His successor, the rotund William Taft, made the West Wing even bigger and the Oval Office a permanent fixture in the lives of all future presidents.

Gray's daily visit had already been scheduled and approved. No one went into the Oval Office unannounced, not even the First Lady. Brennan always received Gray in the Oval Office and not the adjacent Roosevelt Room, as he often did visitors and other underlings.

Brennan looked up from his thirteen-hundred-pound desk built from the wood of the British ship HMS Resolute, Resolute, which American whalers discovered after it had been caught in the ice and abandoned by its crew. The ship had been repaired by the U.S. government and sent back to England as a gesture of goodwill. Queen Victoria reciprocated by presenting the desk as a gift to President Rutherford B. Hayes. Thereafter, the Resolute Desk, as it became known, had been used by every president since, except for a period of time when it was at the Smithsonian Inst.i.tution. which American whalers discovered after it had been caught in the ice and abandoned by its crew. The ship had been repaired by the U.S. government and sent back to England as a gesture of goodwill. Queen Victoria reciprocated by presenting the desk as a gift to President Rutherford B. Hayes. Thereafter, the Resolute Desk, as it became known, had been used by every president since, except for a period of time when it was at the Smithsonian Inst.i.tution.

Gray had had his antennae on high since he stepped inside the West Wing. He had seen the Web casts on Patrick Johnson's death. More of them had trickled out that afternoon. He got the last of them on the chopper ride over. Gray had also received a briefing by the FBI that included the discovery of the drug cache at Johnson's home. He also knew of Secret Service agents Ford and Simpson's involvement in the investigation. When he heard Simpson's name, it allowed him a rare smile. That could be his ace in the hole down the road, should he need one.

As befitted any respectable spymaster, Gray had eyes and ears in the White House and had already been warned that Brennan was concerned about the Johnson matter and its possible negative effects on his reelection campaign. Therefore, he did not let his boss initiate the discussion.

As soon as the two men sat down across from each other, Gray said, "Mr. President, before we go into the daily briefing, I'd like to take up the unfortunate issue of Patrick Johnson's death on Roosevelt Island."

"I'm surprised you hadn't called about it, Carter." There was an edge to the man's voice that Gray understood but didn't particularly like.

"I wanted to have a firm grasp of the facts before I did, sir. The last thing I wanted to do was waste your time."

"You certainly wouldn't be the first one to waste it today," Brennan snapped.

This is the President, and I serve at his pleasure, Gray reminded himself. Gray reminded himself.

Gray gave the president a brief background on the matter, information that doubtless the man already knew. When Gray got to the drug discovery, Brennan put up his hand.

"Are there any others involved?" he asked sharply.

"Good question, Mr. President, and not one that's been answered to my satisfaction. I will personally conduct an internal investigation of this matter, aided, at my request, by the FBI." Getting the Bureau involved was loathsome to Gray, but better he suggest it than allow someone else to do it.