He forced his face even closer to the senator's silver-haired chest. He didn't like it, being this close to a dead man- or any man, for that matter. Fitzpatrick was wearing some kind of religious medal. Probably real silver. He smelled of a woman's perfume. The tall man, the investigator, was almost certain of it. "The D.C. police are going to be guessing jealous lover.

Some kind of crime of high passion,“ he said. ”Wait -- there's something else here. Okay Hold on. I've got to check this out."

He didn't know how he'd missed it at first, but he sure as hell saw the note now. It was right next to the cordless telephone on the bed stand. Impossible to miss, right? But he'd missed it. He picked it up in his gloved hand.

The note was typewritten on thick, expensive bond. He read it quickly Then he read it again, just to be sure... that the note was for real.

Ah Dannyboy, we knew ya all too well One useless, thieving, rich bastard down So many more to go.

Jack and Jill came to The Hill To hose down all the slime Most imperiled Was poor Fitzpatrick Right schmuck, wrong place, wrong time.

Truly, He read the note over the hand phone. He took one more look around, then left the senator's apartment as it was: in a state of bedlam and horror and death. When he was safely down on Q Street, he called in the homicide to the Washington police.

He made the call anonymously No one could know that he'd been inside the senator's apartment, or especially, how it came to happen, and who he was. If anybody found out, all hell would really break loose -- as if it hadn't started already Everything was unreal, and it promised to get much worse.

Jack and Jill had promised it.

One useless, thieving, rich bastard down So many more to go.