I've known a number of tough old combat veterans, and you'd expect them to still be tough, and probably they are, someplace inside. But most of them that I've known have a sort of gentleness about them, as if to say, "I've killed. But I don't want to kill again."

Carl, on the other hand, gave me the impression that he'd add a P.S. to that. "Unless ordered to kill."

He said, "Mr. Madox is in his office. Follow me."

I followed him up the sweeping staircase to a foyer that overlooked the lobby below.

Carl led me to a paneled door and said, "Mr. Madox has fifteen minutes."

"I'll give him longer than that." Unless I kill him before my time is up.

Carl knocked, opened the door, and announced, "Colonel, Mr. Corey to see you."

Colonel? I said to Carl, "Detective Corey. Try again."

He looked really pissed, and I thought about asking him for a mocha freezie, but he announced, "Detective Corey to see you, sir."

Colonel Madox said, "Thank you, Carl."

I entered the office, and the door shut behind me. I expected to see Colonel Madox all decked out in his beribboned dress uniform, but he was standing behind his desk, wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and a blue blazer. He said to me, "This is an unexpected pleasure ... detective."

I replied, "I had the impression at the gate that I had an open invitation."

He smiled and said, "Yes, actually, I did mention to the security staff that you might drop by again in connection with the missing person-which, I understand, has become moot."

I didn't comment on that, so Madox extended his hand, we shook, and he said, "Welcome."

He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat, wondering if Harry had ever been here.

Madox asked me, "Where is Ms. Mayfield?"

"She's at a yodeling class."

He grinned. "So, are you both enjoying your room at The Point?"

I didn't reply.

He said, "I've actually stayed there a few times for a change of pace. I like the lake, which I don't have here. It's a good property, but I find the food too ... well, Continental for my taste. I prefer simple American food."

I didn't respond, and he asked me, "Do they still have that French chef there? Henri?"

"They do."

"He's a real prima donna, like all of them. But if you talk to him, he'll make you a simple beefsteak, sans mystery sauce, and a baked potato."

Was this asshole trying to tell me something? I knew not to mention that Kate and I were married, but I had broken one of the other cardinal rules when I told him where we were staying, and now he was possibly playing a head game with me.

He seemed to be in a chatty mood, the way a lot of suspects are when the fuzz is talking to them, and he said, "Speaking of the French, what is their problem?"

"They're French."

He laughed. "That's it." He tapped the newspaper on his desk, which I saw was the New York Times, and asked me, "Did you see this front-page article? Our loyal French allies are hinting that we're on our own in Iraq."

"I saw that."

"I have a theory that they lost an important part of their gene pool in World War I. A million brave soldiers dead in the trenches. So, who was left to procreate? The mentally and physically unfit, the cowards and the sissies. What do you think?"

I thought he was out of his fucking mind, but I replied, "Genetics are not my strong point."

"Well, it's just my theory. On the other hand, I actually had two former French soldiers in my battalion. One was a Foreign Legionnaire, the other a paratrooper. They joined the American Army to fight, and fight they did. They loved to kill Commies. Great balls."

"There goes your theory."

"No. France doesn't produce enough men like that. But maybe they do, and their feminized society shuns them. They don't respect the warrior ethos any longer. But we do." He said emphatically, "This war in Iraq will be over in less than thirty days."

"When's it starting?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you might have friends in high places."

"Well ... actually, I do." He hesitated, then said, "Bet on mid-March. Around St. Patrick's Day."

"I say end of January."

"Will you put a hundred dollars on that?"

"Sure."

We actually shook on it, and he said, "When you lose, I'll come looking for you."

"Twenty-six Federal Plaza." We made eye contact and I said, "If you lose, I'll come looking for you."

"Call my New York office. It's not far from 26 Fed. Duane Street. GOCO." He mentioned, "I was actually in my office when the planes hit ... I'll never forget that sight ..." He asked me, "Were you in your office? Did you see it?"

"I was about to walk into the North Tower."

"My goodness ..."

"Let's change that subject."

"All right." He asked me, "So, will Ms. Mayfield be joining us?"

Odd question, considering I said she was at a yodeling class, plus I had only fifteen minutes with His Majesty. Maybe he liked her looks, or maybe he wanted to know if this was a bust. "It's just me today."

"All right ... so, I've been running off at the mouth, and I never asked you the purpose of your visit."

The purpose of my visit was a homicide investigation, but I didn't want to jump right into that. That's usually a showstopper, and you might be asked to leave. So I said, "I just thought I'd stop by and thank you for offering your assistance with the missing person."