A guy couldn’t ask for more than that, Davis thought. Davis knocked on a door with three-inch gold letters that spelled out DAYTON EVERARD ABBOTT.

“Come in, Cindy.”

Davis opened the door, stepped in, looked at Day Abbott across the expanse of rich pale gray carpet. He looked for some sign Abbott had been the shooter at Perry’s condo last night. A bandage somewhere beneath his beautifully cut suit coat where Davis had shot him? But Day Abbott looked perfectly healthy and bewildered at seeing them. Then a look of fear leached the color out of his face. He jumped to his feet, his eyes on Davis. “It’s Perry, isn’t it? Did you let something happen to her?”

Davis said quickly, “No, Mr. Abbott, Perry is all right. But we were shot at last night at her condo.”

“Why didn’t she call me? She should have told me. Why wasn’t it on the news? Who was it who shot at her? Have you caught him?”

“Let’s sit down, Mr. Abbott,” Griffin said. Once he and Davis were seated across from Day Abbott’s beautiful antique mahogany desk, Davis said, “Perry really is all right. I’m all right as well. The shooter missed both of us.”

“Did you catch the man?”

“No, not yet.”

“You swear she wasn’t hurt?”

“She’s fine.” But not the Tiffany lamp she loved, he thought, a gift she’d told him Day’s own mother had given her when she graduated from college.

Day Abbott was pale, his hands fisted. “But why? It’s like that bloody note—someone’s trying to frighten her, trying to get to her mother through her. You know it, I know it, why can’t you put a stop to this?”

“We’re going to do exactly that,” Davis said. “Mr. Abbott, you’ve known Perry for a very long time and—”

“Yes, I have. We grew up together. And we’re going to get married and spend the rest of our lives together.” He sat forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “You’ve been guarding Perry since last Wednesday after her Harley was trashed, right?”

Davis nodded.

“But you still haven’t learned anything at all useful.”

Davis ignored that. “Mr. Abbott, would you please tell us your whereabouts last night around ten o’clock?”

“Me? You’re asking if I was the one who shot at Perry? That’s insane. I love Perry. Why would I want to kill her?”

Griffin said, “Actually, Mr. Abbott, more of the bullets were aimed at Agent Sullivan.”

Day Abbott seamed his lips in a flash of rage. “So now you have me gunning after FBI agents? I don’t particularly like him, but I don’t want to kill him, either.”

Davis eyed this sleek young cannibal, probably a future congressman. He didn’t particularly like him, either. He knew Perry hadn’t told him yet she wasn’t going to marry him, felt a moment of sympathy for him about it, until he saw the gleam of contempt in Day’s eyes. “We don’t think you’re involved, Mr. Abbott. This is a necessary formality. Tell us where you were last evening.”

Abbott steepled his fingertips together, tapped them to his chin. “Last night? I had planned, of course, to spend the evening with Perry, but that didn’t happen.” He looked at Davis for a long moment, then said, “Turns out she would have been safer with me last night than with you.” He got no response, and shrugged. “I was with two friends, watching Mrs. Black’s interview on Fox. I’ll have Cindy give you their information.”

Davis said, “You’ve known Perry all her life, as you have her mother. You and Perry were raised nearly as brother and sister.”

Day said stiffly, “We were. That was a long time ago. Now we’re adults. Now things are different. Look, Agent Sullivan, you should focus on who’s trying to kill Ambassador Black, it will be the same person, then this will all be over and we can get back to our lives. Then you won’t have to be near Perry anymore.”

Griffin wasn’t blind to Day Abbott’s jealousy. He obviously wanted Davis out of her life and out of his sight. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Abbott?” he asked.

“What? A gun? Of course not. What kind of question is that?”

Griffin continued. “Again, a formality, Mr. Abbott. But your father owns a Smith and Wesson, right? Did he give it to you when he moved out and left the state, or did he forget it, leave it here?”

Day Abbott shrugged. “I remember my dad’s gun from when I was a kid, but after he left, I never saw it again. I thought about it once or twice over the years and assumed he’d taken it with him. A lot of people own guns. How do you even know about my dad’s gun?”