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he had at the saloon next door…”
    “Whiskey with water,” Tot says.
    “But what’s the one detail, the only one in nearly a hundred and fifty years that no one—and I mean
no one
—can account for?”
    Tot doesn’t even pause. “How Booth got past the White House valet.”
    “Bingo. How Booth got past the White House valet.”
    Reading the confused look on Hayden’s face, I explain, “Back then, security in Ford’s Theatre was beyond pathetic. The police officer who was supposed to be guarding Lincoln’s private box actually left his post so he could get a better view of the play. So when Booth finally made his way up there, the only one standing guard was Charles Forbes, Lincoln’s White House valet. Historians agree that, at that moment, Booth stopped and spoke to the valet. Theyagree that Booth showed the valet a card. But the one thing no one knows is what was on the card. What’d Booth show him? What’d it say?”
    “Some say it was a letter,” Tot points out. “Others say it was Booth’s business card, which, since he was a famous actor, would certainly open doors.”
    “But again, the reason the valet stepped aside and let Booth into Lincoln’s private box was because of whatever was on that magic card.”
    Tot knows me long enough to know I’m not done.
    “Don’t tell me you know what’s on that card, Beecher.”
    I shoot him a look, motioning down to my phone. “Remember that thing that they found in the suspect’s pocket?”
    He nods. I’m talking about Marshall having my name and phone number.
    “Well, I take notice when people have that on them. So when we were driving here, I had Mac send me the full list of his belongings. Look what else he had with him…”
    I push a button on the phone, and an image pops open onscreen. I hold it up to Tot, making sure he gets a good look.
    Tot squints. Hayden leans in.
    “Old playing cards?” Hayden asks.
    “A full deck of them,” I say. “Nineteenth-century, from the look of them.”
    “I still don’t see what this had to do with John Wilkes Booth’s mystery card.”
    “Well, God bless the D.C. Police for cataloging each and every item, because when I went through their full list, there was actually one card missing from the deck: the ace of spades.”

7
    B eecher, you lost me,” Tot says.
    “The deck of cards,” I say. “It’s missing its ace of spades. He’s carrying a deck of cards where one card is missing!”
    “Okay, so unless we’re fighting the Riddler, is that supposed to mean something?”
    “Look around…!” I say, pointing from the peephole, to the pine bar in the umbrella stand. “This guy—”
    “You mean Marshall.”
    “We don’t know it’s Marshall. But whoever he is, he’s meticulously re-created every last detail of Abraham Lincoln’s murder, which, let’s be clear, only happened because John Wilkes Booth was let inside the building after flashing some mysterious long-lost card. And now the one guy we’re looking at happens to be carrying, of all things… long-lost cards.”
    “Can I just say,” Hayden interrupts, still struggling to follow, “even if this is the historical card you’re speaking of, who would he even give it to? The church was locked last night. No one was here.”
    “What about this morning?” I ask. “He could’ve left it for someone. Were you the first one in?”
    “I’m always the first one in. And I told you, when they called me last night, I notified every employee and asked them all to stay home today.”
    “What about the guy with the sign-in sheet?” I ask.
    “Excuse me?” Hayden says.
    “When we walked in… the guy… the one in the cheap suit…” Tot says, holding up the pen he gave him. “He told me we had to sign in.”
    “I thought he was—” Hayden stops. “Hold on. He’s not a detective?”
    My shirt sticks to my chest. “They said all the detectives were at lunch,” I point out.
    Tot looks down at the pen. I’m not sure what he’s