Until You

"Interesting," he said politely.

Harry looked up from the note. "So is this." He folded the note, tucked it back inside its envelope and pushed it across the desk. "Conclusions?"

"Could be anything," Conor said, without acknowledging that the note was sitting in front of him.

"A shopping list? A birthday message for Grandma?"

"Come on, Harry, you know what I mean."

Thurston smiled. "Humor me."

"Well, it could be from a crank, just looking to keep the President's newest appointee on his toes."

"By goosing the appointee's spouse?"

"Ask Sybil to clue you in on the subject of sexual equity sometime," Conor said with a wry smile.

"What else?"

"Could be it's from a run-of-the-mill crackpot, somebody who spotted Eva Winthrop's name someplace and wants to shake her up a little."

"Why?"

"How should I know?" Conor leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. "She runs a cosmetic company, remember? Maybe it's from a dissatisfied customer."

"Would you care to figure the odds on a customer sending Eva Winthrop a quote from Santayana because she doesn't like the color of the lipstick she just bought?"

Conor's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know you were a student of philosophy, Harry."

Thurston chuckled. "Hoyt and I finally connected by phone this morning. He told me what the note said, told me what you'd said, and that he was impressed with how you'd handled things."

"Yeah, well, that's only because I lied through my... " Conor broke off but it was too late. Harry was looking at him with his eyebrows raised.

"Lied through your teeth? When you told my old friend the note was meaningless?"

"You wanted me to reassure him, right? Well, I reassured him."

"But you don't think the note is just from some nut case."

Conor shoved back his chair and got to his feet.

"Look, let's stop playing games. Hoyt Winthrop's up for a presidential appointment. His wife got a note from a person or persons unknown. It's not a note that says 'Have a nice day,' or even 'Watch yourself or I'll blow you away,' which would at least make some sense, it's a note that's pretty much open to interpretation, all of which adds up to mean—as you and I both know—that somebody should probably check things out."

"Somebody?"

"Somebody," Conor repeated coolly. "Meanwhile, I'm glad to hear that Winthrop was pleased with my visit. You be sure and ask him to write a note of recommendation for my file. Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do."

"Conor, let's not play games." Thurston plucked the note from his desk and stood up. "This thing has a bad smell and you know it."

"Maybe. On the other hand, it could be just what I said, a crank note with no more meaning than a crank phone call."

Thurston's brows lifted. "Did they get a phone call, too?"

"No! Dammit, Harry, I'm just making a point. The note might be something to worry about or it might not. Hand it over to the FBI and let them check it out."

"Is that your best advice?"

"It's my only advice."