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Gamble didn’t think of himself as an “old man,” but the kid’s parting shot was otherwise spot-on. Despite Gamble’s regular performance of his skill outdoors, not a single unauthorized photo of him had ever appeared on social media—or, if posted, had never remained long enough for anyone to know it had ever existed.

Gamble finished his last series of moves and walked to the bench atthe edge of the lawn. He wiped the sword clean and placed it in a case that a passerby might think belonged to one of the many musicians who performed in the park. His bodyguard locked it with a key.

“Sir, will you be needing this for tomorrow’s negotiations?” he asked, joking.

Gamble smiled, but slicing and dicing the owner of a target company was not what made him tick. Before Buck was listed on the NASDAQ, he was known for “win-win” deals in which therealwinner was technology. But, as CEO of a publicly traded company, he now reported to the board of directors and its chairman, and the “betterment of humankind” was not on their list of reasons to approve a proposed acquisition, no matter how badly the CEO wanted it.

“All for the greater good,” said Gamble.

His bodyguard chuckled, but Gamble truly did see the growth of his company as essential to the “greater good.” Its patented software programs gathered and processed vast quantities of data in order to identify connections, patterns, and trends that eluded most human analysts. The accepted goal of “data integration” was to help organizations make better decisions, and many of Buck’s customers regarded its technology as indispensable. Gamble spoke more nobly of his objectives. “We built our company to support the West,” he’d once told theNew York Times. To that end, Buck proudly touted its claim that it refused to do business with countries that it deemed adversarial to the U.S. and its allies, namely China and Russia.

Gamble took a seat on the bench, grabbed a nonalcoholic beer from the bin, and cracked it open. The sunset glistened in the glass towers of the city skyline. He loved Chicago. He sometimes wished he’d moved his headquarters there instead of Tysons Corner, less for business reasons than for personal: Would Elizabeth’s drinking have gotten out of hand if they’d moved to Illinois? It was the kind of metaphysical, chain-of-causation question that could make a person crazy. What if we’d stayed in Silicon Valley? What if we’d moved somewhere other than Virginia? What if we’d simply waited another month to move?What if we’d taken a connecting flight instead of the nonstop to Reagan National? What if I’d chosen the fish instead of the chicken on the in-flight meal?

What if I’d never met “that woman,” as Elizabeth called her?

The mere mention of her name could trigger Elizabeth. He’d told her countless times that Sandra Levy was a trusted advisor, nothing more, but Elizabeth would never accept it. As things turned out, the point was moot.

Sandra wasn’t even eligible for parole yet.

“Sir, your daughter is on the line.”

Gamble put down his beverage and took the phone. “Hi, Kate. What’s up?”

Her voice was filled with urgency. “It’s Mom. You need to come home. Right away.”

Chapter 3

By ten o’clock, Kate could cry no more. She dabbed the corner of her eye, and the tissue came up dry. Emotionally, she could have wept till dawn, but her tear ducts had shut down, as if to say,Pull yourself together, kiddo.

A forensic and criminal investigation team from the Fairfax County Police Department had taken over the penthouse, so Kate had gone downstairs with one of the detectives on the scene to answer questions. She didn’t live in Tysons Tower, but technically she owned an apartment there. Kate was in her third year of law school—she was quite realistic about the odds of making it as a playwright—and her father had purchased a one-bedroom unit in her name in the hope that, after graduation, Kate might return to Tysons Corner and work in the legal department at Buck Technologies. Kate had other ideas, and being her father’s neighbor and employee was not even on her list of remote possibilities. The police interview was actually the first time she’d seen the apartment furnished. It reflected her mother’s tastes, which didn’t help, given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry I’m not being much help,” said Kate.

She was seated at the dining room table with Detective Anderson of the Major Crimes Division of the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He was a large man, undoubtedly muscle-bound in his younger years, simply thick in middle age. He wore a necktie with the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, not to be casual but because the jowls made it impossible to button it. Another detective and a uniformed officer were also in the room but seated off to the side. Kate had been answering questions for nearly an hour.

“You’re doing just fine,” said Anderson.

Kate knew he was being kind. His questions weren’t difficult.Was your mother upset about anything recently? Had she stopped calling her friends or stopped going out? Any changes in her daily routine?A daughter who claimed to be close to her mother probably should have been more helpful. Yet Kate found herself answering “I don’t know” far too often, which only lent credence to the very accusations that had precipitated Kate’s visit that night.You never come see me anymore, Kate. You never call.

“Did your mother use drugs or alcohol?” asked the detective.

That question she could answer. “My mother is—was—an alcoholic.”

“You say ‘was’ because she used to drink?”

“She’s been sober for a long time. But once you’re an alcoholic, you’re always an alcoholic. I said ‘was’ because—she’s gone now.”

“Understood. How bad was she?”

Kate could have told stories. But what was the point? Police reports had been known to find their way to the media.

“My father can speak to that better than I can.”

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed. Kate immediately pushed away from the table and answered it. Her father embraced her on sight. As complicated as their relationship had been over the years, Kate needed the hug.

“I came as fast as I could,” he said, releasing her.

She gave him credit for that. Ninety minutes from Chicago to Washington was fast, even on the company jet.

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