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“See, Eardley’s mission was classified. Even the FBI can’t access the info. Could you maybe inquire about it for us discreetly?”
    “Gee, Emily. I don’t know. In ’07, a lot of crazy stuff was happening, all directed very sloppily, in my opinion, by the folks at Langley. Something this cuckoo has Foggy Bottom written all over it. I do mostly recruiting now, to be perfectly honest. All this is definitely above my pay grade.”
    “Foggy Bottom?” I said.
    “The State Department, the CIA,” Emily said.
    “Ah,” I said.
    “‘Ah’ is right,” Milne said, lifting his mug again. “The CIA means politics.”
    Poli-tricks, I thought, as the crime scene tech said when I first found Eardley’s body.
    “We’re not looking to jeopardize anybody, of course. We just need a lead here, Chris,” Emily said.
    “Because actually, Chris, it gets worse,” I said, as I took out the video stills of the two guys who were in the bathroom at the hotel. “I don’t think Eardley’s death was a suicide. I think he was thrown off that hotel. Right before he was about to meet up with a reporter about a government cover-up.”
    Milne shook his head as he looked at the photos. Then he put down his tea and took a deep breath. After another beat, he let out a low whistle.
    “Alrightee, then,” he said dismally. “I’ll make some phone calls. I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 14
    Chris came through as we were getting into the car. He had been able to arrange a meeting for us at another office, on the other side of the Potomac.
    A little after eleven thirty, Emily and I walked through the south parking lot entrance of the Pentagon. Two checkpoints, three massive endless corridors, and an elevator ride later, Air Force Colonel Kristin Payton greeted us by her secretary’s desk.
    Payton was an outdoorsy-looking woman of about forty-five, pale and raw-boned, with short blond hair. Unlike Chris Milne’s office, hers was anything but austere. It had a thick Air Force-blue carpet, a beast of a cherrywood desk, and a comfortable-looking worn leather couch beneath a big double window. A framed article on one of her office’s wood-paneled walls revealed that she was one of the first female pilots to fly an A-10 Warthog in combat.
    “Mr. Milne has briefed me on what you found up in New York, Detective,” Colonel Payton said as she sat us down before her desk. “He also referenced the sensitivity due to the intelligence concerns. Just for the sake of argument, what would you be looking for?”
    “Well, I guess finding out how Eardley was designated KIA would be a start. Were there any remains found in the crash?”
    “Just off the top of my head, I would say no,” Colonel Payton said, folding her hands on her desktop. “Usually the crash of an aircraft as huge as a C-130 will completely obliterate any human remains. If there was an additional fuel fire, which I would assume there was, it would have been even more impossible to recover anything at all. But in all honesty, I don’t know. We can’t know until we receive and read the AFSC report.”
    “AFSC?”
    “That’s Air Force Safety Center, at Kirtland in New Mexico,” the colonel said. “It’s like the military version of National Transportation Safety. They have to do a report on any and all military aviation incidents.”
    There was a buzzing sound.
    Payton drew a phone from one of her uniform pockets and stood. “Excuse me, please, would you?” she said, and left the room. Emily and I shared a look.
    Payton was gone for about three minutes before she hurried back in with a strange, worried look on her taut face. She wiped it off with a deep breath.
    “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m going to have to cancel this meeting. I do not have the authorization to discuss this classified matter with you any further.”
    “Wait, just like that? Are you kidding, Colonel?” I said.
    “No, Detective,” she said, giving me a blank, obtuse look. “Do I