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Martin Cushing’s book-lined home office was the size of a public library branch. There were large oil paintings on the walls. Each had a brass plaque beneath it as if this were a museum.

“Sit on the couch,” I said to the president as I dragged Travers and then Garner in behind him.

“Please help me,” Travers said as I dumped him in the corner beside a comfy reading chair. “My knee! Please!”

I smiled down at him.

“Think glass half-full, dude,” I said. “You still have one knee left. You could have none and in fact—will—if you don’t shut up.”

My eyes went to Cushing’s vanity wall.

My eyes stayed on the photo of Jodi for a long minute.

I’m sorry , I thought.

Then I looked back at Cushing sitting there wide-eyed.

“This is Jodi’s daughter?” I said, taking down a framed picture of him dancing with a blonde waif of a bride.

“Yes.”

“Just the one kid?” I said.

“Yes.”

“How do you like that?” I said. “Just like Emilio Ramos.”

Cushing’s breath started to come out in little gasps. He seemed to try to swallow but he was having trouble.

Instead of putting the picture back, I placed the picture down on Cushing’s desk. Then I took down his University of Virginia law school diploma and placed it on top of the wedding picture. A photo of Cushing hoisted up by the Beckford Redhawks came down next to be stacked neatly on top of that.

“What are you doing?” Cushing said.

“Prepping for the estate sale,” I said, glancing at him. “Lord knows your poor stepdaughter will have enough to do with the probate and everything else.”

President Cushing started to weep then.

“Now, now, Mike,” Colleen said as she sat in Cushing’s tufted leather throne of an office chair that she had rolled out from behind his desk.

“We’re just going to have a talk, President Cushing,” she said. “Nothing to worry about provided you just tell the truth. It’s time to come clean now that all of the, um, distractions are out of the way. If you could check your recollections and really try to start to build a picture for us about what exactly happened on the night of Olivia Ramos’s death.”

“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. It was Frank Stone,” Cushing said.

“Go on.”

“He was here that night. He came up from New York. He runs one of those mega hedge funds. He manages Beckford’s thirty-four-billion-dollar endowment. I work for him. He got me this job.”

“What do you mean that you work for him ?” I said.

“It’s complicated. It’s easier to show you,” Cushing said.

“Show me?”

“What I really do. What my real job is for Frank Stone. That bookshelf behind you is false. Press the paneling in until you hear a click.”