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her collar where he had nuzzled her that morning, laughing and joking on their way to the White House.
    Carson looked at her puppy dog eyes and as much as he wanted to say no, she reminded him of his daughter. He could never say no to her either. He also didn’t know how to tell her that things were going to be very different. He decided it was easier if she just saw for herself.
    “Where to?” he asked.
    “Just head towards Wesley Heights,” said Frankie. “I’ll direct you from there.”
    With little traffic heading out of Washington - it seemed everybody wanted to see the missing West Wing - they pulled up to Frankie’s address in no time.
    Carson whistled as the gates to the property swung open and revealed a spectacular country estate.
    “Holy shit!” he said, as the full splendor of the house came into view, along with what seemed like fifty or so law enforcement vehicles, from crime scene vans to local police vehicles and FBI sedans.
    “Turn here,” barked Frankie on seeing the unwelcome guests.
    Carson followed her instructions and turned down a small lane tucked into the heavily wooded drive. As you approached the house, the angle obscured its existence. Driving back from the house, you couldn’t have missed it. Carson followed the tight wooded drive for what seemed like half a mile, arcing round the perimeter of the main house. The darkness of the drive gave way to a far smaller house, built in a similar style to the far more opulent main house.
    “We’re here,” said Frankie awkwardly.
    A garage sat off to the left. A Toyota Prius was parked next to a Porsche 911 convertible. The two couldn’t have looked more awkward next to each other. The door into the house looked more like a back door and, as they exited the vehicle, Frankie led Carson around the side of the house. A large terrace led out to one of the most beautiful pools Carson had laid eyes on. A grand staircase at the far end of the pool swept up to the main house.
    “The guest house,” said Frankie, watching Carson struggling not to gawp in wonder. The home, pool grounds and landscaped garden were immaculate and beautifully maintained.
    Carson was as old in the tooth as they came and was not easily impressed. He had signed off the search warrant himself and it did not cover a guest house. They simply had a house number on University Terrace NW for Aisha Franks’ home address. He hadn’t thought they’d need to search more than a small apartment or home. He certainly hadn’t thought she’d be living in a house that rivaled the White House, or, he corrected himself, living in its guest house. He began to consider that Aisha Franks was a far smarter young woman than he had given her credit for. He was also beginning to see why Aisha Franks had been assigned to the case.
    “I really shouldn’t let you in there,” he said, taking his cell from his pocket. He needed to get the team into the right house. He could see the high visibility vests of the team tearing through the main house and winced at what the bill was going to be to fix whoever’s house they had just trashed.
    “I’ll stay here if you can just get me a change of clothes,” said Frankie. “I…I smell of Nick,” she confessed awkwardly and uneasily.
    Any doubts he had had instantly evaporated. The look of utter betrayal and loss in Frankie’s face could not have been faked.
    “Wait here,” he ordered and taking her key, opened the main door and walked into a photo shoot straight from the world’s most luxurious homes. Despite being just the guesthouse, it was a four-bed six-bath mini mansion with only the best quality fittings, furniture and craftsmanship.
    In less than two minutes, he was back and had to avert his eyes as Frankie was showering in her underwear in one of the outside showers that skirted the pool.
    “Sorry, I just need to get rid of his aftershave.”
    Carson nodded and continued to avert his gaze. She was an exceptional looking woman and from