She read on, "Patrolling the North Country fosters a special brand of self-reliance, and B Troopers are renowned for their ability to handle any situation with minimum assistance."

"The word is minimal. Minimal assistance. Does that mean we're not welcome?"

"Probably, if you're going to correct their grammar." She continued reading, "In addition to such typical tasks as investigating accidents and crimes, interstate patrol, and special Canadian border details, they often find themselves called on to search for lost hikers, evacuate injured campers, rescue storm-stranded travelers, investigate Fish and Wildlife law violations, and respond to domestic disputes and criminal complaints in remote locations."

"But can they walk a beat in the South Bronx?"

Before she could think of a smart reply, a tall, rugged-looking guy in a gray civilian suit came into the lobby and introduced himself. "Hank Schaeffer." We all shook hands, and he said, "Sorry about Detective Muller. I understand you were friends."

I replied, "We are."

"Well ... really sorry."

He didn't seem to have much else to say, and I noticed that Schaeffer hadn't met us in his office. There's always this problem of turf intrusion, jurisdiction, pecking order, and so forth, but Kate handled it well by saying, "Our instructions are to assist you in any way possible. Is there anything we can do?"

He informed us, "Your guy Walsh in New York seemed to think you were off the case."

I said, "FBI Special Agent in Charge Walsh has rethought that. He should have called you." The prick. "So, you can call him, or you can believe me."

"Well, you guys work it out. If you'd like, I can have a trooper drive you to the morgue."

He didn't seem to know that we'd been there, done that. I said to him, "Look, Major, I understand this is your show, and you're not happy about having a dead Federal agent on your hands, and you've probably heard more than you want to hear from New York, Albany, and maybe Washington. We're not here to make your life more difficult-we're here to help. And to exchange information." I added, "I have a dead friend lying in the morgue."

Schaeffer thought about that and said, "You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Follow me."

We went down a long hallway and entered a large cafeteria. There were a dozen or so uniformed and civilian-attired men and women scattered around, and Schaeffer found an empty table in a corner.

We sat, and he said, "This is unofficial, in the open, coffee, courtesy, condolences, and no papers on the table."

"Understood."

Schaeffer seemed like a straight guy who would extend a professional courtesy, if for no other reason than to see what he could get in return.

I got right to the point. "Looks like an accident, smells like a homicide."

He gave a slight nod, and asked me, "Who would want to kill this man?"

"I'm thinking Bain Madox. You know him?"

He looked appropriately shocked, then asked me, "Yeah ... but why-?"

"You know that Detective Muller was here on assignment at the Custer Hill Club."

"Yeah. I found out after he went missing and the Feds needed help finding him." He advised both of us, "It would be nice if I knew about these things ahead of time. You know, sort of a courtesy. Like, this is my jurisdiction."

I replied, "I won't argue with you about that."

"Look, you're not the people I need to complain to. But every time I get mixed up with the FBI"-he glanced at Kate and continued-"I feel like I'm getting snowed."

"Right. Me, too. You understand that beneath my Federal credentials, I'm just a cop at heart."

"Yeah, but let me tell you, the NYPD I've worked with are no treat either."

My loyal wife smiled and said, "John and I are actually married, so I'll second that."

Schaeffer almost smiled back. "So, tell me what Harry Muller was supposed to be doing on the Custer Hill property."

I replied, "Surveillance. There was a gathering there this weekend, and he was supposed to photograph arriving guests and get plate numbers."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you that the Justice Department is interested in Mr. Madox and his friends. Didn't anyone tell you any of this?"

"Not much. I got the national security baloney."

Baloney? Was that like "bullshit"? Maybe this guy didn't swear. I made a mental note to watch my language. I said, "The Feds are full of baloney, and they're great at snow jobs, but between you and me, there may actually be a national security angle here."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I have no idea. And to be honest, this is what we call sensitive material, and unless you have a need to know, I can't tell you."

I wasn't sure if he appreciated the honesty or not, so I blew a little snow at him and said, "I fully understand that your troop has a huge area to patrol-like eight thousand square miles-and that you're pretty self-reliant and you need ... minimum assistance from the outside-"

Kate kicked me under the table as I went on with my snow job, concluding, "We're here to help if you need our help, which I don't think you do. But we really need your help, your expertise, and your resources."

I had more bullshit if I needed it, but Major Schaeffer seemed to sense that I was snowing him. Nevertheless, he said, "Okay. Coffee?"

"Sounds good."

He motioned for us to stay seated and went off to the coffee bar.

Kate said to me, "You are so full of bs."

"That's not true. I speak from the heart."

"You speak from a public-relations handout that I just read to you, and that you made fun of."

"Oh ... is that where I heard that?"

She rolled her eyes, then said to me, "He doesn't seem to know much, and if he does, he's not sharing."

"He's just a little irritated because the FBI is snowing him. And by the way, he doesn't swear, so watch your language."

"My language?"

"Maybe he doesn't swear in front of women. I have an idea-he might open up more without a lady FBI agent present. Why don't you excuse yourself?"

"Why don't you excuse yourself?"