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As she listened to the ME'S report on the preliminary examination of Parker Sinclair's body, she noticed Dakota inch closer to Assad on the couch and touch his arm. Milstein rolled her eyes and turned away from them to concentrate on the report. It revealed no forensic evidence to connect anyone to the murder. Sinclair had been stabbed repeatedly, and the initial cuts were clean. He was standing close to his killer-someone familiar, perhaps. It would have been bloody; the perp's clothes would have been soaked. Milstein recalled McKenna in his running shorts last night, saying his street clothes had disappeared from the hotel gym ...
     

Midtown North Precinct, West 54th Street, Manhattan
    y early afternoon, Milstein and Assad were at their station house desks, which faced each other, eating sandwiches from a neighborhood deli. Milstein talked on the phone while Assad did Web searches on Solicitor General McKenna.
    "You need to rest, Dad," Milstein said into the phone, "and listen to your doctors." In just a year, she had seen her vibrant, gregarious dad become wheelchair-bound, hunched and haggard beyond his years from his battle with cancer. She paused from lecturing him to look over at Assad. "Yes. He's sitting right here," she said, then cupped the receiver. "My dad wants to know when you're gonna get me under control."
    Assad peered at her over the top of the computer monitor and smiled. He then got up and stood by the printer that sat on a table immediately behind Milstein's desk, close enough to the phone so her father could hear him. "Tell Harry to go to the window and look up ... Any pigs flying up there?"
    Her dad laughed, which triggered a coughing fit. When Assad returned to his desk, Milstein was off the phone, eyes welling up.
    "How's he doing?" Assad asked.
    "He's so stubborn."
    "A stubborn Milstein-imagine that," Assad said. In a softer tone, he added, "He'll be okay, Em."
    She was spared further discussion by the phone's ring.
    "Milstein," she said in her brisk, official voice.
    "Hello, Detective, this is Tucker lhornberry from the Washington Post. I got a message you were trying to reach me?"
    "Yes, hello. Thanks for calling me back," Milstein said. "We're investigating the murder of a man named Parker Sinclair, and we have reason to believe that he may have been in contact with you."
    Silence.
    "Mr. lhornberry?"
    "Yes-sorry," the voice finally said. "I was just taken by surprise. I had no idea Parker had been killed. When did this happen?"
    Milstein heard the soft clicking of computer keys in the background.
    "How about we start with my questions," Milstein said. "How'd you know Parker?"
    "I'm not really comfortable discussing that,"lhornberry said.
    "He was a source?"
    "Detective, you know I can't reveal information about sources."
    "He's dead," Milstein shot back. "I don't think he'll mind."
    Another pause. "Can I ask you one question, Detective?"
    "You can ask."
    "Do you plan to speak with the solicitor general about Parker?"
    Milstein felt a little surge of adrenaline. "Why do you ask?"
    "Please answer my question, Detective."
    "Answer mine." The discussion was starting to sound like something she might overhear in a school yard.
    "Tell you what,"Thornberry said. "How'bout we compare notes?"
     

La Guardia Airport, New York
    cKenna sat at the gate as he waited to board the shuttle to D.C. He was reading the Supreme Court Commission briefing book and periodically glancing up at a cable news program on the television that hung from the ceiling. He had left the meeting before it adjourned, and managed to sneak by the reporters staking out the front of the MetLife Building. He looked up when he heard something about Black Wednesday.' he commission's spokesman appeared on the screen with several microphones pushed near his face.
    "The Supreme Court Commission had a very productive meeting today," he said. "The full commission met until early this afternoon, and the law enforcement task force will meet