AFTER EVERYTHING CALMED DOWN and the team dispersed, Kate took a few minutes to compose herself in the corridor and then stepped into the sitting room of the presidential suite and used her cell phone to call Emily on her private line in the Oval Office.

“It’s me. I’m at the hospital.”

“So how’s the old reprobate? I bet he wants me to smuggle in cigars and whiskey when I come. Well, you tell the old coot that it’s habits like that —”

“M, stop.” Kate’s heart wedged itself in her throat, threatening to choke her words. “He . . . he didn’t make it.”

There was a long moment of silence on the other end.

“I’m so sorry,” she added, the words weak and the sentiment barely a shadow of what enormous sorrow she felt for his death as well as his self-recrimination.

After more silence, Emily spoke in a small voice that sounded nothing like the fearless leader of the free world. “He’s really gone?”

“Just a few minutes ago. It was another heart attack. While I was talking to him. The doctors did everything. But . . .”

A small note of self-reproach tinged Emily’s words. “I should have been there.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“I should have been there,” she repeated, this time with almost an air of hostility. “He would have stayed alive for me. Stayed alive long enough to have the stupid surgery.” Hostility disintegrated into open bitterness. “Dad couldn’t do it —couldn’t love me well enough to hang on until he got under the knife —but I thought Dozier could do it.”

Kate cringed. The only other time Emily had displayed any similar resentment had been after watching a documentary on her father’s life and death while imbibing the larger part of a bottle of very expensive wine.

“C’mon, M. Your father loved you. And so did Dozier. You can’t blame them for . . .” What could she say? For dying?

Emily’s voice grew stronger and the note of anger and resentment faded. “I know that. Logically. But it still feels like they’ve both left me because neither one loved me enough to want to stay.”

She coughed, and Kate knew it was her friend’s way of gaining control over the threat of tears. After so many years in the public eye, Emily automatically controlled her emotions in private as well as in public. “I guess Jack will have to come back now. I’ll call him. I know what to say to make him come. He might not love his father as much as I did, but I know I can shame him into showing Dozier the proper respect now.”

Then she added in her clearest, most powerful voice, “After all . . . I am the president.”

Kate wanted to wait until the initial uproar over Dozier’s death had calmed down before she talked to Emily about his deathbed confessions. However, as she waited for the right place and time to speak with Emily, she found herself concentrating less on his illegal stock holdings and worrying more about his confession about being involved somehow with Maia’s death —and Maia’s threats about Emily.

After returning to her office, she closed the door and fired up her computer. She needed facts, data —anything either to give an amorphous rumor a definitive size and shape. And the sort of research she needed couldn’t be turned over to just anybody. She needed the truth, and then she needed time to figure out what to do with the truth. She didn’t intend to hide it, but she did need time to digest it before full disclosure.

She tried to ignore her conscience that persisted in asking, You want time to spin it?

Maia Bari, Tim Colton, Dozier Marsh, and the Pembrooke Group.

Where did their lives intersect? What did she know? Dozier had said that he should have warned Emily before she brought Maia into the campaign. Did that mean he’d known Maia prior to her involvement? If so, how? When?

Only one person might know. Maia’s boss, Marjorie Redding.

Kate dialed.

Marjorie answered on the fourth ring. “Redding.” Her raspy voice was the product of decades of smoking. Despite her expertise in knowing what other people should look and sound like, she never seemed to take the advice herself. Over the years, her short and squatty figure had grown shorter and squattier and her hair had finally become an impossible reddish pink hue, which Kate’s mother had once described as “halfway between shrimp and flamingo.”

Despite the fact that Kate couldn’t see her, she knew the woman’s makeup had become almost clownish, surpassed only by the garish colors of her wardrobe, which tended toward purple, green, and orange.

And yet, she was the reigning expert in the image consultancy field, even despite her personal choices. But after years of working alone, she’d surprised everyone by hiring a much younger assistant, Maia. Now Kate wondered exactly how the employment opportunity was created. A bit of creative blackmail on Maia’s part?

“Marjorie, it’s Kate Rosen. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“It’s almost nine o’clock at night. I’m an old woman. Of course you’re disturbing me.” Her voice lightened as if suddenly remembering Kate’s new position. “In any case, what can I do for the chief of staff of the White House?”

“I didn’t know if you’d seen the news tonight.”

“Dozier?”

“Yes, I wanted to make sure you knew. I know you two went way back.”

“Too bad about him. There aren’t many of the old-school politicians around anymore. He’ll be missed.”

“How well did you know Dozier?”

“What do you mean by that?” There was a long hesitation. “Oh, I guess you didn’t know. Back in the old days, we were quite an item. But a lot of water has passed under that bridge.”

Kate was taken aback by her response. “You mean you and . . . him?”

She barked in laughter. “Don’t sound so surprised. I wasn’t always the old battle-ax I am now. Back in my day, I was a svelte young thing and I could have any man I wanted,” she bragged. “And now that he’s gone, I guess it wouldn’t hurt anyone to admit that one of those young men I particularly wanted was Dozier Marsh.”

Kate struggled to overcome her speechlessness, but she couldn’t manage more than an “Oh.”

The woman chuckled. “Not what you wanted to know, eh?”

Kate swallowed hard. “Not really.”

“Then why don’t you simply tell me what you want to know. We both know you didn’t call just to give me the bad news. What’s really on your mind?”

In light of the open invitation, Kate decided to plunge in. “All right, then. My question is —did Maia have a chance to meet Dozier before she started working with Emily?”

“Did they meet? Is this one of your generation’s euphemisms for having an affair? If so, yes. I know exactly what Dozier saw in her, but I’ll never understand what she saw in him. Sure, Dozier was well-off, but she could have easily found a younger, more . . . appealing man with far more money. Then again, old men do have a way of dropping dead faster than young ones.” After a brief second, she added, “God rest his soul. . . .”

Kate’s stomach did a flip-flop. Had Maia done just that? gone from Dozier to Tim Colton, a younger and richer man? “You knew they were having an affair?”

“Oh, it didn’t last long. Those things never do. Either the girl gets bored listening to the same old stories, or the old coot finally realizes that she’s not after him for his good looks or personality but the color of his money. But in this case, I told Maia that if she wanted to work with Emily, she couldn’t have any relationships with anyone associated with your campaign staff —advisers included. So she called it off.” Marjorie’s voice darkened. “I made sure of it.”

“How?”

The woman’s laugh was suddenly grating. “I told both of them that I’d rat them out to Emily, and we all know she’d cut them out of her circle in a heartbeat if she thought either were liabilities. Since Maia was desperate for a chance to prove herself and Dozier wouldn’t knowingly do something to jeopardize Emily’s campaign, the two of them broke it off. Immediately.”

“Do you know anything about the man she died with? Tim Colton?”

“I know who he is, of course.” Marjorie paused. “And who he worked for.” She used a highly derogative term to describe Charles Talbot.

“Do you think Tim and Maia were . . . a couple?”

“Him? I doubt it. He’s not her type. Her idea of ‘young’ is a man in his fifties. In any case, anything she did after the election was her own doing. She was no longer in my employ after November 5.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Why?”

There was a moment of silence. “You’ll have to talk to Emily about that.”

“Oh.” Had Emily taken proactive steps after their heart-to-heart talk? If so, it would have been an encouraging step in the right direction. Then again . . .

Kate leaned back in her chair, the small headache that had been haunting the back of her head suddenly moving front and center. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“It’s my most powerful weapon and I guard it like the dragon I am. Trust me —if I learn anything more about Maia’s relationship with Tim Colton, I’ll contact you. My neutrality can only be stretched so far. Sometimes you have to pull the other direction to equal things out.”

“Thank you, Marjorie.”

After she hung up, Kate sat at her desk, dreading the trip home. For one long moment, she debated stretching out on the leather couch in her office and spending the night there. But she knew it would be unfair to Buster to leave him alone all night, even if a quick call would alert her next-door neighbor, Darlene, who’d sworn more than once that she wouldn’t mind any last-minute dog-sitting request.

Also, Kate had another reason to go home. She needed to make a series of personal calls to key members of the former campaign staff, and she’d rather be comfortable at home while doing it.

It was simply a case of proper manners to contact them about Dozier’s death, even if they had already heard about it on the news. She glanced at a photo of Buster on her desk.

I’m going home.

If nothing else, Buster would be a good companion to comfort her as she shouldered that particular burden.

But four hours later, long after she’d made all the calls and was dead asleep, Emily was the one who needed comforting.

“Houston, we have a problem,” Emily intoned in a deadpan voice. Then she did the near impossible.

She giggled.

Kate felt every muscle in her body tense. “Emily, are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not. Yet. But I really, really would like to drink myself into a stupor.”

“No, you don’t.”

She sounded exasperated. “I know that, stupid. Why do you think I called you? If you can’t get over here ASAP, I’m going to call Chip. He’ll distract me. Boy . . . will he distract me. I’ve been neglecting the dear boy. It’s probably time we discovered the allure of the Lincoln —”

“Don’t, Emily. I don’t want to know.” Kate knew that since Emily had been in office, her dalliances with Chip McWilliamson had gotten few and far between . . . much to Kate’s relief. Somehow she couldn’t see the citizens of the United States embracing the concept of the president having an official boy toy.

“Don’t be a prude. Anyways, I’ve sent a limo. It should be outside waiting for you, right . . . about . . . now.” She giggled again, suggesting that she had already finished one bottle and flirted with a second before calling Kate. “You could just jump into the car, jammies and all. No, wait. Don’t. I don’t think I could stand the publicity over a White House slumber party. It’s hard enough being a female leader without encouraging that sort of stupidity.”

“I’m getting dressed and I’ll be there shortly. Why don’t you get on the treadmill and do a couple of miles while you wait for me?” Maybe she could keep Emily otherwise occupied while she threw on clothes and headed into town.

“Don’t wanna run.” Emily’s voice brightened perceptively. “Want ice cream. I know there’s ice cream downstairs. Meet me in the kitchen. Oh, and bring Buster. I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age. He can have ice cream too.” She hung up, laughing.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kate said to the dial tone.

Five minutes later, Kate was both thanking and apologizing to the driver who had been rousted out of bed to pick her up. She thanked him again when he pulled up in front of the north entrance to the residence and hopped out to open her door.

“Have a good evening, Ms. Rosen.” He added, “Or morning, as the case might be.”

She scurried into the building, nodding at the uniformed guard who held open the North Portico door.

“Good morning, Ms. Rosen,” he said with a bright grin, despite being on the graveyard shift.

She tried to return his smile, but it turned into a yawn. “I’m not ready for morning, Frank. Not yet.”

His expression broadened, perhaps at being called by name or perhaps because she had Buster in tow. “Some days, morning comes awfully early. I believe the president is downstairs in the main kitchen.” He bent down a little in an effort to make himself a smaller threat to Buster, who looked somewhat wary. “Is this the infamous Buster we keep hearing about?”

“It is indeed.” She tugged slightly at his lead. “Buster, sit.”

Buster, still excited from the unexpected car ride, sat reluctantly. When Frank offered the back of his hand for Buster to sniff, her dog took one whiff and decided the man was definitely friend rather than foe. A second later, Buster had forgotten any suspicions he had and pulled against the lead in hopes of better reaching the man to offer undying affection.

Frank scrubbed Buster on the head. “Ferocious guard dog you got there, ma’am.”

“You know what they say —kill them with kindness.”

“Yes, ma’am. Then he’s definitely a killer.” He straightened, evidently deciding that he had to return to his protective duties. “Have a good day, Chief. You too, Buster.” He held open the door for her, giving her a nod as she passed by him.

They entered the building, immediately turned to the right to take the back staircase leading one floor down to the ground level. Buster’s toenails made a clicking echo on the marble stairs as they descended.

Once on the ground level, Kate allowed Buster to follow his nose, and he headed straight for the savory aroma coming from the kitchen.

When they stepped into the kitchen from the dim corridor, Kate had to shade her eyes against the glare. Fluorescent lights reflected from a thousand stainless steel surfaces —the counters, the appliances, not to mention the hundreds of shiny pots and pans hanging from overhead racks.

Emily stood beside an industrial-size mixer, glaring with open hostility at it and the noises it was making. She looked ready to kick the appliance.

And she looked drunk.