Aaron pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his voicemail as soon as the plane touched down in Houston. He frowned as he listened, then quickly redialed Mitchell's cell number, glancing at Jon as he did so. "I'll be right back," he whispered to Martha as he stood up and headed for the jetway. Standing off to the side, he eyed the passengers absently as they filed off the plane and closed his eyes in relief when Mitchell picked up.

"Mitchell, it's Pierce. I got your message. What's happening?"

"Sir, Slater told me that Whitcomb contacted him this morning. He wanted copies of the keys to Ms. Powell's building. Slater put him off for the moment, but he isn't sure what to do and Whitcomb's putting a lot of pressure on him. I told him I'd call him later today."

Aaron thought for a moment. "We might be able to use this. If we give Whitcomb access and he enters Ms. Powell's apartment, we'd have what we need to arrest him. But he must know by now the Service is watching her. What could he need the keys for?" he asked, almost to himself.

"I don't know, sir, but I need to know what to tell Slater."

"Tell him—tell him to supply Whitcomb with the keys. I'll make arrangements for Ms. Powell to stay elsewhere," Aaron replied rapidly as the pilot gestured him to leave the jetway.

"We moved up the boarding time. The other passengers will be coming on in the next few minutes," one of the flight attendants whispered to Aaron as he re-entered the plane.

"Thank you. Is there somewhere I can talk with my colleague? How about here?" he added, pointing into the small food preparation area directly ahead of him.

"Right this way." The attendant ushered Aaron into the galley and pulled the curtain; a moment later a confused Cardona joined him.

"Aaron, what's going on? Is there something wrong?"

"Yes, there is. I just talked to Mitchell and it looks like things are starting to move. Whitcomb is blackmailing Slater to give him copies of the keys to Martha's building."

"Oh, my God. There goes our contact."

"No, I told Mitchell to give Slater the go-ahead. I want him to give Whitcomb those keys." Cardona responded with a smothered exclamation, but then thought for a moment.

"You're giving him rope to hang himself?"

"I am. It's just what we need."

Jon looked apprehensive. "Who's going to tell Ms. Powell about this?"

Aaron sighed. "I am, Jon. It's a good thing you and Angie are here, maybe that way she won't kill me," he muttered, pulling back the galley curtain. Jon's sardonic chuckle followed him down the aisle as he headed back to his seat.

He was greeted with anxious looks from both Angie and Martha. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, but there's been a change in plan," he began, taking Martha's hand. "Nothing serious, I just had an idea. You know you've always wanted to see where I live."

"Yes…" she responded, confused.

"Well, I think it's time you did. I want you to stay with me tonight for a change. You don't need to worry; we'll send some agents over and they can keep an eye on things."

Martha jerked his hand from his grip. "All right, what's going on? You always said it was too much of a security risk for me to stay with you."

Aaron knew there was no point in sidestepping the truth. "We know how Whitcomb's been able to get access to your apartment, Martha. He's been blackmailing one of the building's service staff. Mitchell just told me that Whitcomb requested copies of the keys to your apartment from his contact." Aaron took a deep breath. "We're giving him the keys."

For a moment Martha looked as though she were about to explode; then, trading looks with Angie, she made a visible effort to remain calm. "And why are you giving him the keys?"

"Because we want to catch him in the act of breaking in. Then we can arrest him." He paused, hoping this argument would convince Martha; what he got in response was a raised eyebrow. "And whose brilliant idea was this?"

Jon met Aaron's eyes with a rueful smile. "Ms. Powell, Aaron and I have discussed this. I agree with him that this is our best chance of getting enough evidence to press charges against Whitcomb. Right now we have a sound theory that he's responsible for Dunlap's death, but nothing that would hold up in court. Neither one of us is thrilled about giving him access to your apartment but I honestly don't have any other ideas."

Martha stared skeptically at Jon for a moment before settling back in her seat. "Please go on, Agent Cardona," she invited coolly. Jon blinked for a moment and then continued cautiously: "This investigation has taken some time. Everyone who works in your building has been checked on. We identified a likely suspect and checked his phone records; that led us to Whitcomb. While we were out of town, Aaron met with this guy and made him understand that his only way to avoid prosecution was to pass his information along to us. He called Agent Mitchell today to report that Whitcomb was demanding those keys. As long as we know what Whitcomb is planning we can protect you by staying one step ahead of him, and it gives us a better chance of putting him away for good. If we can get him he might even be willing to cut a deal that would lead us to the heads of the conspiracy – the men who were working with your ex-husband."

After thinking for a moment Martha looked at Angie. "I can't argue with that reasoning. Can you?" she inquired.

Angie shook her head. "No. I don't like it, but I can't disagree with it."

Martha turned back to the two men. Still without acknowledging Aaron, she answered: "All right, Agent Cardona, I'll go along with this. What do you recommend I do now? Where am I supposed to spend the night tonight?"

"I'll leave Agent Pierce to discuss that with you," Cardona replied, rising quickly. "I need to, uh, go talk to the flight attendants for a minute." Angie quickly followed his cue; the two of them vanished into the galley area.

Left alone with her fiancé, Martha folded her arms and stared grimly at the seatback in front of her. Aaron eyed her, opened his mouth and then changed his mind: Adjusting his seat to a more comfortable position, he leaned back, closed his eyes and began to breathe peacefully. After thirty seconds of silence, Martha began shooting annoyed looks at him; finally, unable to bear it any longer, she hissed: "Say something."

Aaron yawned and moved his chair upright again. "Have you decided? It's really up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I asked you to spend the night with me tonight. You heard me. I just need a yes or a no."

"If I say no?"

"Then we'll find you a hotel. If you'd feel safer that way, I have no problem with it. I need to catch up on my sleep anyway," he added with a faint smile. "You kept me busy the last two nights, you know."

Martha glared at him, slumped back in her chair and sulked. Aaron was suddenly irresistibly reminded of Jennifer and had to fight to hide a smile. "I can't believe we're having a fight on an airplane," she muttered.

"I wasn't aware we were having a fight."

Just as Martha began to lose control of her temper she realized that she was reenacting the pattern of conflict she'd had in her marriage. When goaded Charles had been more than willing to meet her halfway in provoking an argument, but that was not Aaron's style. She reminded herself that his only goal was her safety and tried to set her irritation aside. "Why didn't you tell me about this, Aaron?" she asked quietly instead. "I appreciate everything you and Jon are doing. I trust your judgment. But I can't believe you wouldn't tell me something as important as this. This man is stalking me." Her anxiety level flared, and she stared at her shaking hands, unable to continue.

Aaron took her hands in his comfortingly. "Martha, we didn't want to scare you. Maybe I should have told you, but I didn't see the point in making you worry when there wasn't anything we could do. If we'd tried to arrest him, we would have gotten nowhere and he would have known we were on to him. Knowing this guy was trying to get access to your place and having to wait to see what he tried next – I didn't want to put you through that. But now we know, and I want you to be a part of this. You aren't a pawn, but unfortunately you are his target. Under the circumstances Jon and I had to do what we thought best."

Martha shuddered. "You were probably right, Aaron. Even knowing about it now is giving me the creeps. But I'll feel better about it if you have a plan to deal with him."

The fear in her eyes melted Aaron's usual reserve in public. Ignoring their fellow passengers, he pushed up the armrest between them and pulled her into his arms. "You know you're more important to me than getting Whitcomb. No matter what, I'm not going to let anything happen to you." Seeing Angie peeking around the galley curtain he quickly asked, "What do you want to do about tonight? Just tell me. Either way is okay."

"I'm spending it with you, of course." She smiled into his eyes. "You know I'm dying to see where you live. But I should warn you, I'm going to go through everything down to the medicine cabinets. I will leave no stone unturned."

Aaron laughed as he visualized Martha inspecting every closet in his home. "That's fine with me. You can help me decide what to keep and what to throw out. If I'm moving in with you I have to pack, remember?" He watched her face light up at this reminder and waved Angie and Jon back from the galley. As they returned to their seats he quickly whispered, "I love you. And I'm sorry." Martha leaned her forehead against his and whispered back, "Take a nap if you can. We may not be getting much sleep tonight, either." She gave him a wicked grin just as Angie sat down on his other side.

Slater had been waiting at the building's service entrance for about five minutes, glancing around nervously the entire time. As if compelled, his gaze kept returning to the windows of the building across the street. He jumped as a voice came suddenly from behind him: "Right on time. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

"I have the keys." Slater dug in his pocket and held them out. "Here." Somewhat to his surprise, Whitcomb made no move to take them: "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked blandly instead.

Slater looked puzzled. "You want to come in?" he repeated.

"I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you, and I wouldn't mind a cup of tea if you can manage one." Clearly at a loss for what to do, Slater took another fleeting look across the street but stopped himself in mid-glance. Instead he obediently opened the door and ushered Whitcomb inside.

Inside the building Slater had been staring at, Mitchell cursed under his breath. "What does he think he's doing?" he muttered. "Why didn't he just give him the keys?" He lowered the telephoto lens he had been using to film the encounter, rubbed his eyes and sighted along the lens again.

Slater opened a door off the main utility room, gesturing Whitcomb into a small office. Hardly more than a cubbyhole, it held just enough space for a table, two chairs and a few storage lockers. He pushed some paperwork aside, switched on the desk lamp and picked up a small electric kettle. "I'll be right back," he muttered and headed to the other room to fill the kettle at the sink. Left alone in the office Whitcomb quickly pushed open one of the locker doors that had been left ajar and took note of its contents, including a spare pair of coveralls and a large bunch of master keys hanging inside. The presence of a discarded Racing Form provided a strong hint that this locker was in fact Slater's. As his reluctant host returned he quickly pushed the door back to its original position and sat down again.

Slater plugged the kettle into the wall outlet over the desk and began to search for the tea. "What is it you wanted to ask me?"

Abruptly, Whitcomb dropped his mild manner. "Have you talked to anybody about our little arrangement, Mr. Slater?"

Slater nearly lost his grip on the mug in his hands. "Are you crazy? I'd lose my job! Or go to jail, or both."

Whitcomb took this denial in, unimpressed. "I've heard from a reliable source that the Secret Service is aware of my interest in the former Mrs. Logan. I doubt I could convince them that I'm just a harmlessly obsessed fan of hers. I came here to talk to you because I'm trying to protect myself. You have an interest in this too: If I'm safe, you're safe. Once more, have you told anyone about me? Anyone at all?"

With effort, Slater forced himself to speak calmly. "No. I'm in over my head, we both know that. I'm just trying to stay alive and stay out of jail. If I tell anyone about you, what are my chances of having that happen?"

Whitcomb chuckled grimly. "About those of the proverbial snowball in Hell." They were interrupted by the sound of boiling water. Automatically, Slater unplugged the kettle, filled the mugs and added tea. Whitcomb took his and inhaled the steam from his cup for a moment, carefully jiggling his teabag. The tension level in the room decreased noticeably as he eyed the brewing liquid. When he judged the tea to have reached the proper strength he removed the bag, glanced around the room to the trashcan and tossed it in before adding sugar to his cup. "We all have our weaknesses," he explained to Slater, who was looking slightly surprised. "Yours is racing. Mine is caffeine." He chuckled and took a sip, mellowing visibly. "Ah, perfect. Well now, Slater, as long as you keep quiet we'll be fine. I won't need your services much longer – you'll probably be relieved to hear that. You've been most helpful, and I'm going to give you a bonus payment to show my appreciation. Take my advice: don't spend it on the horses." He handed the janitor a thick wad of folded bills. "That's a thousand dollars. I'll double it if you hold onto those keys for me. I'm not going to make use of them just yet." Taking another sip of tea, he watched Slater's face as he counted the money and then put the mug down on the desk with a thud. Dropping his sociable manner, he suddenly looked like a very dangerous man. "If I have any reason to believe you're double-crossing me you're going to regret it. Do you understand?"

Slater paled. "Yes. Yes, I do," he stammered.

"Good." Whitcomb stood up swiftly. "Then I think it's time for me to leave." Having escorted him to the door, Slater slumped against it in a panic. "Oh, God. What am I going to do?" he groaned.

"We got nothing, sir." Forty-five minutes later, Mitchell looked tired and frustrated. "Whitcomb didn't take the keys, he didn't force entry. Slater invited him in. As far as I could tell he didn't even touch the door frame."

"We confirmed that he's been in touch with Slater, but we already knew that." Aaron tapped his pen on the desk thoughtfully. "He didn't take the keys. He knew we were watching him, he must have. Somebody tipped him off." He looked again at the junior agent. "What did Slater say?"

"Not a lot. I don't know exactly what Whitcomb said to him, but it scared him good, I could see that. Whitcomb paid him more money but he didn't take the keys. He wanted to know if Slater had told anyone about him. Slater told him no." Mitchell paused. "He's a terrible liar, sir. He kept staring across the street while he was waiting for Whitcomb to show up. I know from the way he was acting that Whitcomb must have realized he was being watched."

Aaron sighed, shaking his head. "Charles," he muttered. "It all keeps coming back to Charles."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Mitchell. You did fine. Get me a copy of Slater's debriefing, will you? I want to see his version of what happened."

An hour later Aaron was sitting in his favorite chair with Martha on his lap. Martha's obvious delight at being in his apartment had helped him shake off his preoccupation with the Whitcomb case. He was as pleased to have her there as she was to be there. As she had warned him, she had inspected the apartment minutely; she had been struck by its spareness and lack of decoration, but the stacks of books and well-placed reading light softened its impersonality, as did the family pictures prominently displayed on the desk and in the bedroom. There was only one picture of Diane, posed holding a very young Nathan Pierce.

"You don't have a lot of furniture here," she commented.

"I don't need it." Aaron shrugged. "Diane took a few pieces after our divorce, but I sold or donated a lot of it. The only thing I really cared about was this chair. I used to read Nathan to sleep in it when he was little." He looked wistful for a moment. "That was twenty years ago." With a visible effort he changed the subject. "I have good news for you, Martha. Whitcomb doesn't have your keys; he didn't take them for some reason. You can go home as soon as you'd like."

"That would be never." Martha laughed, snuggling closer to him. "It's wonderful to be here, just to see how you live. Was dinner okay?" she added anxiously.

"It was fine." Aaron found himself struggling to express his happiness. "Martha, it's wonderful to have you here. It used to be a relief for me to come home after work and be by myself, but now I don't think I ever want to spend another night alone here again." He hugged her close. "You inspected my bedroom?"

"I did."

"Want to inspect it again?"

Some time later Martha yawned, stretched and craned her neck to look across the room. "Look at us." She laughed and shook her head. The normally pristine expanse of Aaron's bed was a tangled mess, garnished with clothes strewn on the floor and edge of the mattress. She made a token gesture to straighten out the bedclothes but was prevented by Aaron, who grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into him; she put up no resistance.

"Aaron."

"Mmm?"

"I've been thinking."

"What about?" he murmured.

"When we get married, we might need a bigger place." She rephrased the statement: "We will need a bigger place. The apartment I'm in now I never meant for anything but a temporary living arrangement. We can't entertain there, we can't have people over for dinner…"

Aaron grimaced. "Entertain?"

"Entertain," she repeated firmly. "I don't mean every night, but sometimes we'll have to. You know how Washington is."

"A bigger place. That's going to be expensive."

"I know, but it shouldn't be that much more than what I'm paying now and less than what the two of us are paying together. I could check with the manager to see if any larger apartments will be available soon. We need to get your things moved in too."

Aaron yawned and kissed the top of her head. "Let's talk about it in the morning. Right now all I can think about is that you're here, with me, and we're going to get married. The rest of it can wait."

"Okay, sweetheart." She hugged him. Some corner of Aaron's mind reminded him that he'd have to ask Martha to meet again with Charles, but he decided it could wait until morning. Still not quite able to believe that she was here with him, he smiled and put everything else out of his mind. The two of them fell asleep quickly. In contrast, several miles away in a high security prison Martha's former husband lay staring at the ceiling, balancing his safety against hers and trying to make up his mind as to his best course of action.