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piercing black eyes, which seem to look right through you. As he approached, those eyes were focused on Amanda and I was getting a funny feeling why.
    Stopping before Amanda, Simon squeezed her hand affectionately. This was an unexpected gesture and not only because he wasn’t into touching. He and Amanda had never been particularly close. Both strong willed and outspoken, they had a history of butting heads over the nuances of a case. Amanda often initiated their disagreements; she had a hard time blindly accepting Simon’s theories, even though he was usually proved right. That’s not to say she didn’t respect his opinions; she did. When Amanda agonized over whether to reveal how she felt toward me, Simon was the person she’d called for advice.
    “He was the obvious choice,” she said. “He’s one of your closest friends and I knew he’d give me a straight answer.”
    An accurate assessment, which explained why I was bothered by what I’d witnessed.
    Simon had squeezed Amanda’s left hand. He must have felt her engagement ring through the latex glove. But as Enrique had done, he offered no congratulatory comment.
    My earlier suspicion was reinforced and I tried to decide how I felt about it.
    Was I angry that Simon had known and hadn’t told me? Not really. Despite our friendship, I realized that if I’d been in his position, I’d probably have done the same thing.
    Turning to me, Simon was all smiles as he asked about Emily. He wasn’t simply making small talk; he genuinely wanted to know. Since Nicole’s death, he’d appointed himself Emily’s unofficial godfather.
    I told him about the dance, how beautiful Emily looked. As Simon listened, his mood became somber, his eyes going to the media room. From within, we heard Dr. Cantrell say, “I have to take your temperature, honey. Is that okay? Jerry, get some pictures before we cut the ropes. Maggie, hand me that knife—”
    “It’s a bad one, Martin,” Simon said quietly.
    Everyone in the world called me Marty, including my mother. Not Simon. “We’ve heard. Who was that on the phone?”
    “Congressman Harris.” He addressed Enrique, speaking quickly. “Pass the word that the congressman plans to arrive by nine-forty-five. Tell everyone I don’t anticipate a disruption in our activities. Also have Teriko check Talbot’s computer for a listing of his friends and acquaintances, including email contacts.”
    Enrique swung around to leave.
    “Oh,” Simon added, “and ask Richard to request printouts of phone calls that Talbot made over the past six months. From his home and his cell phones. Have the lists faxed to the car.”
    By car, he meant his limo, which had two satellite phone lines and all the high-tech communication equipment a millionaire homicide cop could ever want.
    As Enrique hurried away, I checked my watch. It was only eight-fifteen. “Harris wasn’t even supposed to land until nine-thirty.”
    “His flight departed early,” Simon said. “He should land at Reagan National in less than an hour. There’s a chance he could be delayed by en route weather, but for now, he wants us to assume that he will be on time. He’s determined to view his nephew’s body. I tried to advise him against it, but…” He shook his head.
    Simon hated outsiders barging into a crime scene. But he’d obviously gotten the word to handle Congressman Harris with kid gloves.
    When I asked, he said he hadn’t broached the topic of Talbot’s sexuality with the congressman. “What’s the point, Martin? Do you think he’d tell us the truth?”
    “Probably not.” Harris had spent political capital by publicly denying that his nephew was gay and odds were he wouldn’t change his story now.
    From the doorway, Cantrell said, “Take two more shots of his hands, Jerry. Zoom in close. Get the knot. That’s it. Careful of the blood.”
    Simon removed rosary beads from his jacket and we filed into the media room to see the body.

5
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