"Meaning you can't tell me."

"Well . . ."

He laughed. "Alex, Alex. Haven't you learned yet that one-way streets don't usually go very far? Okay, for you I'll do it. I remember all the nasty ones you helped me clear. What's the party's name?"

I told him.

"You're involved with them? I didn't know it had gotten that far. Didn't even know they had kids."

"What do you mean 'that far'?"

"Her attorney did a preliminary filing a couple of weeks ago. They've got a long way to go before custody comes up. I don't expect to see them in court for half a year. Think it'll be a dirty one?"

"Could be. Lots of money involved."

"All hers. But I don't see him asking for alimony. Wouldn't do much for the old public image, would it? Young man on the rise living off his wife's dole."

"He is on the rise."

"Oh, yeah. The talk around City Hall is he's bored with things there. Got his eye on the seat Massengil had the good manners to vacate, then onward to something congressional-as in D.C. Anyway, I'm glad you're involved. Maybe we can keep the shrapnel to a minimum."

"Hope so, Steve. Thanks."

"Sure. Any time. See you in court."

I felt edgy staying at home and decided to leave until I was able to reach Milo and find out who'd been in the tan car. Another drive up the coast seemed like a good idea. Just as I was out the door my service called.

"Dr. Delaware, tsk tsk," said an operator whose voice I didn't recognize. "You haven't called in for your messages since noon and there's a whole bunch of them."

"Any emergencies?"

"Let me see . . . hmm . . . no, it doesn't look that way. But Detective Spurgis-"

"Sturgis."

"Oh. Is that a t? I'm new here. Flo took it-can't read her handwriting. Okay, Detective Sturgis left a real long one. You want me to put it away or read it to you?"

"Read it, please."

"Okay, let's see . . . He said to tell you things have climbed higher dash capital F capital E capital D. I guess that spells FED-at least that's the way Flo wrote it. Capital F, capital E, capital D. Or maybe it's a T. Things have climbed higher. FED. Or TED. But your name's not Ted, so I guess it's FED. Anyway, things have climbed higher dash FED. You'll be contacted. Sit tight. Got all that?"

"Got it. What time did he call?"

"Let's see . . . it says here five-thirty on the slip."

"Thanks."

"You sure do get some good ones, Dr. Delaware. You must have an interesting life."

32.

I sat tight. The knock on the door came at 11:23. A double rap followed by a single punch of the doorbell.

"Who is it?"

"FBI, Dr. Delaware."

"Could I see some identification, please?"

"Certainly, Doctor. I'll hold it up to your peephole."

I looked through the hole, couldn't see much, even after switching on the landing light. "How about dropping it through the mail slot?"

Hesitation. Voices conferring in low tones.

"Sorry, Doctor, we can't do that."

Keeping the chain on, I opened the door a couple of inches.

"Here you go, Doctor." A hand holding a small leather case came forward. Gold badge on one side, picture ID on the other. The picture was of a man in his late twenties. Light-brown hair cut short with a right-hand side part. Full face, sharp features. hoyt henry blanchard. special agent, federal bureau of investigation, u.s. dept. of justice.

I undid the chain and opened the door all the way. The life-sized version of the picture stood on the landing wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, and blue tie with a silver stripe. Six feet tall, narrow frame at odds with the heavy face. Square-lensed steel-framed glasses that made his eyes look indistinct. Behind him was a woman about his age. Dirty-blond pageboy, capuchin-monkey face, gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

Blanchard said, "This is Special Agent Crisp."

He and I shook hands.

Crisp didn't smile or extend her hand. She was short and long-waisted with chunky calves. Her outfit said no time for small talk: navy-blue two-piece suit with a high-necked white blouse, black leatherette purse big enough to hold a day's worth of groceries. Behind her glasses she had a tax auditor's eyes. Both she and Blanchard had the compulsive, suspicious look of accountants who've done time on the streets. Was the bureau still actively recruiting CPAs?

Blanchard said, "You're careful, Doctor. That's wise."

I said, "With all that's been going on . . ."

"Absolutely. Sorry for the hour."

"I was up."

He nodded. "So you got the message."

"I did. What can I do for you?"

"We'd like to interview you."

"About what?"

He permitted himself a brief smile. "Everything that's been going on."

I stood back. "Come on in."

"Actually," said Blanchard, "we'd prefer if you came with us."

"Where to?"

Crisp bristled at the question. At the fact that I was questioning them. The two of them looked at each other.

Another bland smile from Blanchard. "Sorry, Doctor. We're really not authorized to say where until you agree to come with-I know it's kind of a Catch Twenty-two, but that's the way it is."

"Information transfer regulations, sir," said Crisp. Her voice was husky. "In a security matter, we're not authorized to discuss it outside of the approved locus."

Blanchard glanced at her as if she'd talked out of turn. Gave me the kind of look common to good-natured parents of ill-behaved children. "We're not talking summons or a warrant or anything like that, Doctor. Meaning you're not obligated to accompany us. But it would be a big help to our Task Force."

"We can get a summons easily enough," said Crisp, as if to herself.

Good cop, bad cop? A reason for it, or just force of habit?

I said, "Is Detective Sturgis part of the Task Force?"

Blanchard cleared his throat. "Like Agent Crisp said, we're really not authorized to give out any information outside the approved locus-meaning a certain specific site-which is where we want to take you. Then we can clear everything up. But let's just say that your expectations vis-a-vis Detective Sturgis have a high probability of being met."

Crisp shifted her giant purse to the other shoulder.

I hesitated.

Crisp looked at her watch and glared.

Blanchard said, "Not to worry, Doctor. We're the good guys."

"No offense," I said. "But sometimes it's hard to tell."

His expression said he'd taken offense. But he stuck another smile on his face and said, "Guess it is."

Crisp tapped her watch and said, "Let's just come back tomorrow morning with paper, Hoyt."

Blanchard ignored her and said, "Tell you what, Doctor-how about we give you a number to call? Verify the Task Force."

"How about if I talk to Detective Sturgis myself?"

"That's fine in principle, but the problem is he's unavailable by phone-on radio alert, restricted band." He put his finger to his mouth and thought. "Tell you what-I can probably get him on the unit in our car." To Crisp: "Okay, Audrey?"

She gave a bored shrug.

Blanchard turned back to me. "Okay, we'll try. But Headquarters may not okay the communication; the lines have got to be kept clear at all times."

"High intrigue," I said.

"You bet." Smile.

Crisp was unamused.

"Okay, let's go down to the car," said Blanchard. "No. Even better, I'll go to the car and bring the unit up."

"Fine."

He turned and took a step down.

Crisp's purse slid off her shoulder and thumped on the landing.

I bent, picked it up, and gave it to her. Up close she smelled of cinnamon gum, had gravelly skin under pancake makeup.

"Thanks," she said. Finally a smile from those disapproving lips.

She used one hand to take the purse, drew back the other and touched her forehead, fixing hair that didn't need fixing. Then she lowered it and lunged forward suddenly. Hitting me very hard in the solar plexus, using a stiff-fingered karate punch that turned her hand into a dagger.

Electric pain. I lost breath, sucked air, clutched at my belly, and doubled over.

Before I could straighten, someone behind me-it had to be the smiling Blanchard-shoved a hand in the small of my back, rattling my kidneys, and slung an arm around my neck.

A blur of gray sleeve. Gray noose. Under the fabric, hard muscle pressing against my carotid.

My mind knew the right moves-heel on instep, elbows back-but my oxygen-starved body wouldn't obey. All I could do was flail and gasp.

The gray arm pushed upward, keeping the pressure on and rolling against my neck as if it were dough. Forcing its way under my chin, shoving my head back so hard it whiplashed. Clamping harder against the carotid, relentless.

Consciousness faded. I saw Crisp, watching. Amused.

Blanchard kept squeezing. I wanted to tell him what I thought of him-how unfair he'd been, pretending to be the good cop. . . .

My legs gave out. A heavy, oily blackness oozed up all around me . . . total eclipse of . . .

I came to in the back seat of a car-lying across it, my wrists bound behind me. I wiggled my finger, felt something hard-warm, not metal. Not handcuffs. I touched it again. Some kind of plastic tie. The kind the police use for quick trussing.

The kind that had always reminded me of garbage-bag fasteners.

I managed to sit up. My head felt as if it had been squeezed for juice. My throat was raw as tartare. An inside-of-the-seashell noise roared in my head and my eyes were out of focus. I blinked several times to clear them . . . to catch a view of passing terrain . . . establish bearings.

Blanchard was driving, Crisp up front, next to him. The car made a quick turn. I rolled, twisted my body, fighting to stay upright, and lost. I hit my head against the door panel. Sharp sting, then nausea ate its way into my gut-a reprise of the sucker punch.

My eyes slammed shut and I gave an involuntary groan.

"It awakens," said Crisp.

Blanchard laughed.