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Or rather, you could.” Morgan reacted to the wary expression on Charlie’s face. “I’m not suggesting you play DeepThroat. Or even that you step on toes. I’m just asking that you dig up a little information for me about what cases my father was working on at the time of his death.”
    “Who might have had it in for him, you mean.”
    “Exactly. It would be a start.”
    “I’m sure Brooklyn’s Cold Case Squad will kick in and cover that territory.”
    “Eventually. Once the turf war is over and the files are dusted off. I don’t want to wait for that. I want to cut through the red tape. Starting with the old-timers, as you put it. You could talk to them, see what you could find out.”
    “There are two problems with that strategy. For one thing, whatever cases your father was handling are now spread out all over the place—from solved and filed away, to cold and in storage, to wide open and reassigned. And for another thing, you’re assuming this crime was a personal vendetta. It could still be a robbery gone bad.”
    “We won’t know until we check. But that brings us to the third problem—or rather, the fundamental problem—the one that’s really causing your reluctance. Politics. The battle over which jurisdiction gets—or wants—this case. Till you’re sure of that, you run the risk of pissing people off. Well, relax. I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Arthur. He’ll make sure you’re given the green light, and that just enough of the powers that be are made aware of that.”
    A hollow laugh. “You make me sound like a self-serving bastard.”
    “No. Just a guy who values his professional future. I don’t fault you for it. Now, will you help me?”
    Charlie steepled his fingers in front of him, lowering his gaze to study them. He couldn’t look Morgan in the eye and remain unswayed. Actually, he couldn’t remain unswayed even without eye contact. Too many personal feelings were involved here—complex, multifaceted personal feelings. Staying impartial was an impossibility. It had been then. It was even more so now.
    He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
    HEATHROW AIRPORT WAS a zoo—wall-to-wall travelers all scrambling to get to and from their destinations.
    Lane Montgomery just wanted to get home.
    He shifted in his seat, glancing at his watch to see how much longer it would be before boarding time. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t be soon enough. Talk about jet lag. He’d been to Beirut, Istanbul, Athens, Madrid, and now London, all in ten days. He was cranky, bone-weary, and overtired. All he wanted was an hour in his Jacuzzi, and eight more between his sheets.
    He leaned back, shut his eyes. He loved his work. But this part of it was starting to get to him. The life of a paparazzo had been exciting as hell at twenty. At thirty-three, covert photo ops that felt all too similar to his tabloid days in strategy and execution—despite the fact that they were CIA-sanctioned, being done for an entirely different, noble cause—were getting old. The crazy schedule, the requisite secrecy, and the subsequent isolation—all of that was eroding the thrills and excitement and replacing them with a new kind of restlessness.
    Life on the edge was great. But a little more normalcy would be a welcome relief.
    His cell phone rang just as the overhead voice announced that his flight was starting to board— finally , after an hour plus of delays.
    He stood up, slung his camera bag over his shoulder, and dug his cell out of the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. He was already walking toward the boarding line as he glanced at the caller ID.
    It was Hank Reynolds, the editor he worked with at Time .
    He punched on the phone. “Hey, Hank.”
    “Hey. Where are you?”
    “About to hop on a plane at Heathrow.”
    “Heading away or home?”
    “Home. And not a minute too soon. The flight’s already been pushed back twice. I’ve worked twenty hours a day