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he's Ed Fulton, who's working with me at Director Murtaugh's request."
    The younger man seized his cue. Fulton broke in. "The feds have taken over the investigation," he announced. "Half a dozen FBI forensic people are on the way. You can have your people wait outside."
    "Now, hold on a minute," Campbell replied. "It's a homicide committed in the District. We always work together in a case like this."
    "Not this time, bud," Fulton snapped. "Not when the victim is the secretary of state."
    Looking pained, Ann got up and left the room. Nobody seemed to notice her. Jennifer was too intrigued by the Washington infighting to move.
    Campbell walked over to the phone. "I'm calling the police chief," he said. "He'll go right to the White House."
    "You're too late," Fulton shot back. "Director Murtaugh has already spoken to the mayor. The truth is that she was very pleased to be rid of this hot potato."
    If Fulton thought that invoking Murtaugh's name would make Campbell more malleable, he was wrong. It further enraged the detective. He bit down hard on his lower lip as he picked up the phone. It took him three calls until he found Malcolm Lowry, the chief of police, at a daughter's house. After listening for a minute, he slammed the phone down in disgust.
    "Fine, it's all yours," he said. He pointed his finger at Fulton and Traynor. "I hope you two geniuses choke on it."
    Fulton wasn't the least bit intimidated. "You don't have to get pissed," he said in a condescending tone. "The secretary of state was a good friend of the President's. This development shouldn't surprise you."
    Bill Traynor looked at Campbell sympathetically.
    "C'mon, we're all in the same business," he said, trying to smooth things over. "Why don't you start by telling us what you've learned so far?"
    Campbell's mouth was set in a firm line. "How could I learn anything if I'm so stupid?"
    "Hey, I didn't say that," Fulton replied. "I just wanted to make it clear who's in charge."
    This young twerp was pissing him off. "Well, you could have said that we were working together."
    "Look, we don't need this crap," Fulton said, now sounding furious himself. "As far as I'm concerned, you can tell us what you learned, pull your people, and hit the road."
    Campbell put the notebook in his pocket. He moved in close to Fulton, his fists clenched. For an instant Jennifer thought he was going to punch him out. "You've got an attitude problem," he said. Then he pulled away with dignity, as if he had decided that the satisfaction of smacking Fulton around wasn't worth losing his job. "I've got nothing to tell you, smart ass. The security guards who were out in front this afternoon are still here. Mrs. Winthrop is in the house and"—he suddenly became aware of Jennifer listening with an amused expression on her face—"and Ms. Moore, who brought Mrs. Winthrop home from the theater, is right here. Your forensic people can get any prints or other stuff from my people. I'm out of here."
    Campbell shoved his hands into his pockets and stormed out of the house, taking half of his people with him.
    "You got anything special to contribute right now?" Fulton asked Jennifer. His tone was haughty. To have gotten his job, this guy must have one helluva resume, Jennifer thought. She had rarely met anyone who enraged people so easily—including her.
    Yeah, I've got something to contribute, Jennifer told herself. A lesson for you in how to talk to people. "Not a thing," she replied coldly. "As Detective Campbell already told you, I brought Ann Winthrop home. If you don't mind, I'll wait with her until her daughter gets here, and then I'll leave. You can find me in the Washington phone book at Blank and Foster law firm on Monday, if you need me."
    "By Monday we'll have this crime solved," Fulton said with confidence. "We'll have the man who killed Winthrop behind bars."

 
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    Chapter 3

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    It was almost eleven on Sunday morning and Ben Hartwell, dressed in a