“Where are we going?” asked Kate.

  “Fairfax Police Department. I’m delivering the note to them.”

  “Shouldn’t they pick it up from where Mom left it?”

  “Maybe. But I’m making sure this goes straight to the investigative file, not to some news outlet.”

  He opened the file beside him and removed a clear plastic bag. The note was inside. On the outside, sealing the bag, was a tag bearing someone’s initials, which confused Kate.

  “How did the note get in an evidence bag if you haven’t given it to the police yet?” she asked.

  “Half my security detail is former FBI. They know how to handle evidence. I trust my security detail more than I trust that jackass who interrogated us.”

  Kate wasn’t interested in arguing over the finer points of evidence collection. “Can I see the note?”

  “You can’t open the bag. You’ll have to read it through the plastic.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, reaching for it.

  He pulled it away. “First, I want to say something.”

  Kate suddenly realized why her father was sharing the note this way. She could have hung up on him over the phone. She could have run into the next room if he had come to her apartment. There was no escaping her father’s explanation while in the backseat of a moving car. She had to hear him out.

  “Contrary to what a lot of people think, alcohol is not a truth serum. Just because you say—or write—something when you’re drunk, doesn’t mean it’s your true feelings.”

  “I know.”

  “Alcoholics can say horrible things. It’s because they’re sick.”

  “Dad, please stop. I don’t need a public service announcement. I need to see her note.”

  He gave it to her. Kate stared through the plastic. It was written on watermark stationery, the kind her mother might have used to thank a friend for hosting a dinner party. Her mother had beautiful cursive, and her final note was no exception.

  Dear Christian, it began, and the fact was not lost on Kate that her mother had left no note to her, just to her father. Kate read in silence. The body was just two lines, the first of which was two words:

  I’m sorry.

  Her gaze locked onto the second line, which was made all the more mind-boggling by the fact that the note was signed, Love, Elizabeth. Kate’s hand trembled as she read:

  I did it for Kate.

  She read it a second time, and a third. The grayish-white blur of limestone government buildings in the car window reminded her that she was in a moving vehicle, but she felt more like she was underwater, her lungs filling with the cold dark ocean as she struggled to breathe, to comprehend.

  “For me?” she asked aloud, her voice quaking.

  “Honey, it’s like I said—”

  “What is that supposed to mean, she did it for me?”

  “Your mother was not well.”

  “Well enough to leave a note. What is she saying here?”

  “I have some thoughts on that.”

  “So do I. She’s saying I wanted this. That I wanted her out of my life. So she did it. For me.”

  “It doesn’t mean that at all.”

  “How else am I supposed to read it?”

  Her father took the bagged note and put it back in the file. “Your mother did everything in her power to shake the beast. She lost. She relapsed, over and over again. This was the story of her life. Continuing on this way would bring nothing but heartache and disappointment to the person she loved most, and who loved her. So she ended it. For you.”

  Kate glanced out the window. Everything was still a blur, but her father had given her a moment of clear thinking. Again, her mind conjured up the black-and-white Life magazine photograph from her undergraduate class, the grotesque but captivating image of the young woman who had jumped from the Empire State Building. Kate had felt bad about digging into the life of a victim, but she was so intrigued that she’d gone behind the photograph and researched the young woman. Her mother had run off when she was young, leaving her father to raise nine children. She was twenty-three years old and soon to be married. She’d spent a weekend with her fiancé and seemed happy. And then she rode the elevator to the eighty-sixth floor, placed her neatly folded coat on the observation deck floor, and jumped over the railing. She, too, had left a note. She’d done it for the man who wanted to marry her. She could never be a good wife. “I have too many of my mother’s tendencies,” she’d written.

  “Kate, are you okay?”

  She glanced back at her father. “I will be, I think.”

  “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Kate wasn’t sure she had the “bandwidth,” as her father liked to say, to talk about one more thing. “Is it important?”

  “Yes. You don’t have to answer right this minute. But I would like you to come work at Buck Technologies.”

  Kate’s mouth opened, but the words were on a few seconds’ delay. “This is not a good time for me to be considering job offers.”

  “You’re graduating in December. What do you have lined up, other than becoming a playwright?”

  “American University has the top master’s program in arts management in the country.”

  “You’re not thinking of another degree, are you?”

  “No. The law school allows us to take three graduate-level classes toward our JD, so I did. I loved it. I probably should have enrolled in that program in the first place, but a law degree could land me the same job. This city is full of art centers, museums, and maybe even a few theaters that would hire me in their development or marketing departments.”

  “Actually, a friend of mine is on the board at the Kennedy Center. I could give her a call and—”

  “Dad, no. This is why I can’t tell you anything. You take over.”

  “Okay, I get it. If that’s your dream, you should pursue it on your own terms. But hear me out. You can always leave the practice of law. It’s almost impossible to pick it up once you take another path.”

  He was speaking from experience, a graduate of Stanford Law who’d never practiced.

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

  “Give yourself options. Take an internship in Buck’s legal department for your final semester. See if you like it. Then, maybe in January, you can start at the bottom like everyone else and come onboard as an associate general counsel.”

  “Dad, we’ve talked about this before.”

  “Not really. I brought it up when you started law school, and you dismissed it.”

  “That’s because it was a bad idea.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Nepotism is still nepotism. Mom’s death doesn’t change that.”

  “You won’t be working for me. You’d work for the general counsel.”

  “Who works for you.”

  “I’m asking you to think about it. Let’s work at this. Let’s hold together what’s left of this family.”

  Under the circumstances, it was hard to give a flat no to a plea for family strength. Kate glanced out the window, then back. “All right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter 6

  The phone call Kate had least expected came on her first day back at law school. It was from Irving Bass’s assistant, the young man who had replenished the director’s supply of vodka during Kate’s reading.

  “Can you hold for Mr. Bass, please?” he asked.

  Kate was between classes, seated at a picnic table in the law school’s courtyard. The semester was two weeks old, though she had missed everything through Labor Day, a few days for her mother’s funeral, the rest for grieving and general inability to function.

  “Sure,” she answered. “I guess so.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Kate hadn’t given her script much thought since reconnecting with Noah at the coffee shop. Even if she’d wanted to recycle it, so to speak, there’d been no time. Her father would have been content to create an algorithm—Medieval Scribes 2.0, perhaps—to generate “handwritten” responses to the boxes and boxes of expressions of sympathy he and Kate had received. Kate made it her job to give each the truly personal response it deserved.

  Bass’s assistant apparently had a long definition of “one moment.” She was still on hold, seated on a bench, when she saw the dean of the law school walking across the courtyard.

  “Congratulations on the internship, Kate,” he said as he hurried past her.

  It was the responsibility of all third-year law students to keep the placement office apprised of their employment status. Law schools loved to tout the fact that one hundred percent of their students had a job upon graduation. Kate had accepted the internship at Buck Technologies during her final semester, but the obvious assumption of the administration was that it would turn into a full-time position. Judging from the smile on his face, the dean was obviously delighted to have one less unemployed member of the December graduating class to worry about.

  Kate was checking to see if the call had dropped when she heard that unmistakable voice of doom in her earbuds.

  “This is Irving Bass.”

  Part of her wanted to say “whoop-de-doo,” but she composed herself. “Hello, this is Kate.”

  “Kate, you’ve inspired me.”

  He definitely had her attention. “How so?”

  “When I read your mother killed herself, I decided to check into rehab.”

  There was no “I’m sorry for your loss, Kate.” Straight to the point, and it was all about him. Typical.

  “I’m glad you were ‘inspired,’” she said, using his word. “I hope it works out for you.”

  “But that’s not why I’m calling. Your script inspired me.”

  “The one you said was—”

  “Forget what I said. I was talking about the first ten pages, which were awful. My assistant forced me to read the rest. You’re on to something.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Kate, I’m a busy man, which means there are a limited number of questions I can take from playwrights. You’ve just wasted one of yours with a dumbass question like”—he shifted to his ditzy girl voice—“‘You really think so?’”

  Kate was certain she didn’t sound anything like that, but she let it go. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “I’ll be unreachable, in rehab, for thirty days. That should be enough time for you to do the first rewrite.”

  “A rewrite?”

  “Damn it, Kate, you did it again. Knock off the dumb questions and meaningless jabber. If you talk that way, it will find its way into the dialogue of the characters you create. Yes, we are doing a rewrite. Many rewrites. I said you were on to something. I didn’t say you had something.”

  “What are you looking for in the next draft?”

  “Good, that was a much better question.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me! I don’t want your thanks. I want a script I can produce.”

  “You—you want to produce my script?”

  “Kate! That’s the third strike. I should be hanging up now.”

  “No, don’t! Stop jerking me around and just tell me what you want me to do.”

  She worried he might hang up, but she was glad she’d said it.

  “Okay. I can respect that. I want you to meet me between Fourteenth Street and the old Fifteenth Street across from the National Mall. One hundred Raoul Wallenberg Place.”

  “When?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “But—”

  “That’s the only slot I have. I have to check into rehab by six.”

  Kate would have to skip her favorite class, but a meeting with a Broadway director had to qualify as an excused absence for a course called the Law and Lawyers in Modern Literature.

  “I’ll be there. Should I bring my script?”

  “No. I said rewrite, not revision. The old script will only hold you back. This is your first research trip on a brand-new act one, scene one, page one. You’ll understand when you get there.”

  Oddly enough, Kate, too, was feeling inspired. And intimidated. “Okay,” she said, but Bass had already hung up before she could add “Looking forward to it.”

  Kate put her cellphone away, and then took a minute to gather up the tangerine peelings, stray pieces of popcorn, empty water bottle, and other evidence of what passed for lunch in law school. She was trying to decide if her energy bar wrapper was trash or recycling when her phone rang again. Her first thought was that Bass had already changed his mind. She was wrong.

  “Kate, hey, it’s Noah. Sorry to bother, but I need to talk to you right away.”

  She returned to her seat at the table. “What about?”

  “Buck Technologies.”

  “I think you have the wrong Gamble.”

  “I’m serious. This is important.”

  Kate could hear the tightness in his voice, which underscored his words. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “I can’t do this over the phone. Where are you now?”

  She could only guess as to why it had to be in person, but when someone who prosecuted cybercrimes for a living told you not to talk on the phone, you followed his lead.

  “I’m at the law school.”

  “Can you meet me outside the Judiciary Square station?”

  She knew it well. It was near Georgetown University, where she and Noah had met, and even closer to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, where he worked. “Sure. I’ve already blown off my afternoon class. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  “You’re not even going to give me a hint as to what this is about?” she asked.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and then his reply. “See you in thirty,” he said, and the call ended.

  Christian Gamble checked into the Mayflower Hotel and went straight to his suite. He’d been staying in hotels since Elizabeth’s death, no plans to return to the penthouse at Tysons Tower. His selection of the Mayflower, however, was not without purpose. He was there for a wedding as a guest of the groom. Had it been anyone but David Walker, he would have sent his regrets.

  Gamble had known David Walker nearly as long as Buck Technologies had existed. Like most tech companies, Buck could never have succeeded without the backing of a venture capital firm. Walker was the head of BJB Funding, the initials standing for “Bond, James Bond,” the introduction made famous by Ian Fleming’s iconic hero. The Bond connection was lighthearted but no accident. Following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, the CIA was on a mission to fund elite tech companies, especially data-integration firms. A clever team of lawyers pointed out to the CIA’s director that, under the United States Code, the agency’s funds “may be expended without regard to the provisions of law and regulations relating to the expenditure of Government funds.” In other words, while a typical venture capital fund raises money from passive investors such as pension funds, BJB could receive annual funding for investment purposes as part of the CIA’s budget for the Directorate of Science and Technology. Some might consider it an odd use of taxpayer dollars, but that hadn’t stopped Walker from steering millions from the CIA’s very discretionary budget to Buck Technologies at a time when it was desperately needed.

  No one regretted it more than Christian Gamble.

  He walked to the credenza, which held a gift basket worthy of Martha Stewart. He glanced at the engraved invitation attached to the big white ribbon.

  . . . the marriage of Imogene Miller to L. David Walker IV.

  It was a strange marriage, stranger than the marriage between the CIA and venture capital—and not just because the ceremony was on a Tuesday, which was the only open day on Walker’s calendar for the next six months. Walker was fifty-seven, thirty years older than his bride. It may have worked for Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn in Love in the Afternoon, but Walker was no Gary Cooper, and, as Elizabeth had pointed out on one of their first dates while in line at Blockbuster Video, Cooper and Hepburn made kind of a creepy couple, even if the film was set in the 1950s.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Walker. The two men went to the sitting room, Walker on the couch and Gamble in the desk chair.

  “I’m very sorry about Elizabeth,” said Walker.

  Gamble thanked him, though he knew there was a business purpose to the visit. There always was. Walker didn’t take long to get down to it.

  “I can’t think of a delicate way to raise this, so I won’t even try,” he said.

  “We have a history of being blunt,” said Gamble.

  Walker rose and checked out the gift basket. He seemed drawn to the bottle of 2007 Louis Roederer Cristal.

  “Fairfax County Police are resurrecting the domestic violence accusations against you.”

  “That’s already been proven false. Elizabeth recanted two years ago.”

  Walker checked the back label of the champagne bottle. “Not the first wife to come out and say, ‘Never mind, it was all a misunderstanding.’”

  “That’s not what happened in my case, and you know it.”

  He placed the bottle back in the gift basket.

  “Here’s the problem, Christian. Plenty of people in Washington think it’s a very bad idea for the CIA to have a venture capital arm investing taxpayer dollars in private companies.”

  “Critics have been saying that for years. It’s not a new ‘problem,’ and I don’t see how it has anything to do with Detective Anderson and these accusations against me.”

  Walker stepped away from the gift basket. “It’s plain as day. If there’s even a shred of truth behind these accusations of domestic violence, that means the CEO of Buck Technologies is vulnerable to extortion. If the CEO is vulnerable to extortion, the CIA can’t do business with Buck. Our capital investment is worthless.”

  “Except that the accusations aren’t true.”

  “I believe you. But the director of the CIA may not feel you’re worth the risk.”

  Gamble gave him an assessing look. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Walker returned to the couch. “BJB has a seat on Buck’s board.”