We Know

I took a deep breath, contemplated my next move. I'd missed a morning interview, not good considering I was beholden to my ex-girlfriend for setting it up. Induma, a software engineer when we'd dated, had sold a storage-management application to IBM or Oracle for an obscene amount of money and for stock options that turned out to be worth even more. She now acted as a part-time guru, helping troubleshoot for the hundreds of companies and institutions using her system. They included Pepperdine, which offered a joint M.B.A./Master of Public Policy I'd had my eye on for a while.

In the last eight years, I'd worked my way from soup-kitchen ladler to co-executive director of an umbrella charity that channeled money to various programs for L.A.'s homeless. At thirty-five I had just convinced myself I was ready for something bigger. Last week I'd left to explore options and start studying for the standardized tests required for Pepperdine's joint-degree program. And Induma had hooked me up with an informational interview with a dean of admissions; I didn't want to screw up my chances, but even more I didn't want to make her look bad.

I picked up my cordless phone to give her a call. A chill tensed the skin on my arms, and I threw the phone down on the bed. I found a screwdriver among the dumped-out tools at the bottom of the coat closet and pried the phone's casing open. I lifted out the perforated disk of the receiver. No C-4. And no bugs, but I knew from Law amp; Order that these days they tapped calls from outdoor junction boxes. Deciding to play it safe, I left the phone dismantled on the kitchen counter.

I headed into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and at long last wiggled the key from the sole of my shoe. Brass, like I remembered. Thicker than a house key. Stamped on the front, three uneven numbers: 229. On the back: U.S. GOV'T, UNLAWFUL TO DUPLICATE.

An office in the Secret Service Building? A government vault? A safe-deposit box?

A knock at the front door startled me. As I sprang up, a thud vibrated the floor. Jamming the key back into the air pocket of my sneaker, I scrambled out into my bedroom.

A ginger-haired young man in his early twenties stood at an uncomfortable forward tilt, peering apologetically into my apartment, his fist still raised from knocking. He wore a white shirt, almost the shade of his skin, and a red paisley bow tie. The front door lay flat on its side just inside the threshold. We regarded each other, startled. I looked like an idiot or a schizophrenic-muscle pants, gift-shop T-shirt, eyes glassy with fatigue.

"Uh, sorry. Mr. Horrigan?"

"Nick."

"I'm Alan Lambrose. One of Senator Caruthers's aides. The senator got into town late last night after the debate, and he'd like to thank you in person."

"Is that really a bow tie?"

"It is. It's sort of how I'm known. Senator's aide with a bow tie." He smiled brightly and fanned a hand down the hall. "I have a car waiting for you, if that's okay."

I walked into the living room, the Aztec pattern of the muscle pants flashing with my movement, and gestured around. "Not the best time."

"Is there some way we can help?"

"Sure. I'd like my door fixed."

"We'll get that taken care of. And we'll see that you're reimbursed for the damage."

"Look," I said, "I get it. There's fifteen minutes of fame to be had. Everyone's eager for me to have them, and to get a picture shaking my hand."

"Everyone?"

"Every presidential candidate."

Alan's pale lips firmed to suppress a smile, the first break in his wonkishness. "I won't lie to you," he said, "and pretend we're not pleased you didn't wait around for Bilton's call."

"How do you know about that? Did Wydell tell you?"

"I don't know Wydell, but I can tell you that it became Service scuttlebutt before you left the hospital."

That struck me as odd and made me wonder at the reach of Caruthers's influence. "I'd always thought the Service was about discretion," I said carefully.

"Times are different, I suppose," Alan said. "Everything's gone to shit and politics."

"Right," I said. "Well, please thank Senator Caruthers for the offer, but tell him I'll take a pass. I need to… you know, figure out what to do here about my place." I hoped I didn't sound as helpless as I felt.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Alan withdrew.

I tried shoving some of the stuffing back into the couch, growing increasingly frustrated. I wanted to restore something to its former shape, even a damn couch. But the more I fussed with it, the more the fabric tore and stretched, and after a while I gave up and sat, splay-legged and discouraged.

When I looked up, Alan was in the doorway again, sliding his cell phone back into his pocket. "The senator told me I was an asshole for playing the political angle. He said he has no interest in publicizing his meeting with you. He just wants to meet you because he was such an admirer of your stepfather."

I considered this skeptically. But I remembered how Frank had always spoken about Caruthers. "Can I take a shower?"