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you,” Fredrick told Turner, who nodded.
    “Thatch? Who is Thatch?” I asked, but Turner hurried me past the guard hut and toward the West Wing before Fredrick could answer.
    “Who’s Thatch?” I asked Turner, but didn’t get an answer.
    “Good God, Jack, what happened to you?” demanded a burly Secret Service CAT agent with a shaved head who’d been waiting for us at the West Wing entrance. The agent swept open the door and followed us through the corridor and into the lobby.
    “Nothing,” Turner grumbled and tried to usher me toward the passageway to the left. But his colleague, who looked as if he’d played fullback in college, blocked him.
    “No, something happened out there. You were attacked ?”
    “It’s nothing.”
    Since we were both running short on time—Turner had a killer to track down and I had a meeting with the First Lady to get to—I decided to hurry this conversation along.
    “I . . . er . . . might have shot him with pepper spray. Purely by accident, you understand. I thought he was attacking me . Now if you don’t mind—” I tried to move him out of the way.
    “Let me get this straight.” The agent refused to budge. “You let her—” He bit his quivering lower lip, clearly struggling to hold back a laugh. “You let this itty-bitty thing get the jump on you? She’s half your size, Jack. Just wait until the rest of the team hears about this.”
    “Hey, now!” I protested. I might not be built like a fullback, but I was by no means itty or bitty. I was taller than most women I knew. And I could take care of myself, thank you very much. And I would have told the agent just that if I hadn’t caught sight of the murderous glare Turner had pinned on me.
    “Right,” I said. “We’re in a hurry.”
    “Thatch is waiting for you in the main office.” The agent stepped out of our way.
    Turner grabbed my arm again and ushered me through a doorway to the left of the lobby. A deep chuckle followed us as we rushed down a narrow hallway.
    I’d been in the West Wing only twice before. The first time was during the whirlwind tour Ambrose Jones, the White House chief usher, had given me on my first day.
    The second time occurred on one of the rare days Gordon had called in sick. A potted pomegranate bush in the Chief of Staff’s office had started dropping its leaves. I’d taken the call to go have a look.
    The modest size of the West Wing struck me the same way it had on those two other occasions. Such big decisions were made on a daily basis in this intimate space. The history that had been made in these corridors was staggering, captured in photos decorating the walls we were passing. My step slowed.
    “We don’t have time for sightseeing.” Turner rushed me down a rather utilitarian and narrow set of stairs leading to the basement.
    “Look.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward me. “Just answer the questions asked of you. Let me explain what happened with the pepper spray. We don’t need to get distracted by irrelevant details. I need you to stay focused. A murder was committed.”
    “I know. I was there . . . apparently.”
    “Which makes you an important asset.”
    He wasn’t kidding about that. If I’d suffered from the sin of pride, which I didn’t, my head would have swelled from here to Charleston at the sight of the number of high-level staff members waiting for me in the Secret Service offices.
    The long, windowless room was filled with agents working from several dozen sleek metal desks set up in three tight rows that reminded me of NASA’s mission control. Large computer monitors flickered as pictures and data sped across the screens. The room had buzzed with activity until I stepped across the threshold. The activity ceased as the agents stopped work to turn and watch me.
    Near the door stood Gordon, Ambrose, and Dr. Stan, the White House staff M.D. They were deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. He had a full head of