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replied. “It can be hard work.”
    She went and poured him a stiff Laphroaig. “Here,” she said, thrusting it at him. “Drink this while you soak in a tub.”
    He did so, and was the better for it.
    The following morning, she walked him to the door. “You still haven’t investigated me,” she said.
    “What was that I was doing for the past two nights?” he asked.
    “I mean really investigated me.”
    “I think I will need all the facilities of the Bureau’s headquarters for that,” he said. “Can you come to Washington soon?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I have a place you can stay. It’s very nice.”
    “As long as it has a bed.”
    “It does.”
    She pulled him back inside the door and kissed him properly, then he put his bags in the car and turned it toward the airport. Then he stopped. He made a U-turn and drove to Elizabeth Johnson’s home.
    She met him at the door. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Kinney?”
    “Ms. Johnson, you may not believe this, but I’m here to do you a favor.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I’m here to take those files off your hands.” He quickly raised a hand before she could speak. “Please hear me out.”
    “I don’t have any files,” she said adamantly.
    “Please, Ms. Johnson, let me explain. The senator had a lot of enemies, some worse than others. If we interview every one of them, it will take us months, maybe years, to develop suspects.” He took a deep breath and told the lie. “Now, I think it’s very possible that, somewhere in those files is the name and the motive of the man who murdered the senator, and I can’t believe that you would do anything to stop us from finding out who that is. I’ve already searched the cabin thoroughly, and the only other place the senator would have felt comfortable leaving those files is here.” He stopped and waited, watching her think.
    “I hadn’t thought about the killer being in the files,” she said finally. She turned and started into the house. “All right, come on in.” She got the key from the safe, led him down to the basement, moved some things out of the way, and pointed at the index card files.
    Kinney dug them out and tucked the little four-drawer cabinet under his arm. “Thank you,” he said.
    She led the way back to the front porch. “You know, Mr. Kinney,” she said, “I expect there are a lot of things in there that would hurt people. The senator had a mean streak. I wouldn’t like to think you were going to use those files to hurt anybody.”
    “Only the man who killed him,” Kinney replied. “Thank you again.” He got into the car and drove to the airport, where the Lear was waiting for him.
    *            *            *
    BACK IN THE Hoover Building, Kinney made room in his office safe for the little filing cabinet, set it inside and locked the safe, then he went to see the director.
    “Sit down, Bob,” Heller said, “and tell me what you’ve got. Tell me everything.”
    Kinney sank into a chair and crossed his legs. “We’ve got what I told you yesterday,” he said, “and nothing more. There isn’t anything more. The guy is a pro.”
    “You mean a hitman?”
    “Sort of. I don’t think the Mafia did it, if that’s what you mean, but I think I can tell you something about the shooter.”
    “Please do.”
    “He’s a loner, but maybe with a support network. He probably learned to shoot in the military. He’s driving a nondescript vehicle—an SUV or a pickup or an RV—something that would blend in without attracting attention. It may not be the first time he’s killed somebody, but he only kills people when he feels some moral justification. He’s between forty-five and sixty-five. He’s well-educated, with at least a bachelor’s degree, maybe even with some graduate work. He’s not a hired killer or a sociopath, he’s doing this out of conscience. He’s methodical, patient, and cool-headed, and he’s going to be nearly impossible to catch,