“I attended the memorial service,” said Hambly.

“Almost all the way back, on the left.”

“You were close, you and Janelle?”

“Yes.”

“It seemed like you’d known her a long time.”

“Fourteen years.”

“She liked LSD, didn’t she?”

“I believe she tried it.”

“Tried it. Yeah. Liked Leary’s Orange Sunshine, didn’t she?”

“I’m not familiar with the different brands.”

“Brands,” said Hambly.

David sensed that Hambly was not interested in his own line of questioning.

“It’s unusual for the FBI to investigate a murder,” said David.

“We’re not. Did Janelle ever talk to you about political organizations?”

“Never. She had no interest in politics that I know of. Except she was against the war.”

“I’d call that politics.”

“As I just did, Mr. Hambly.”

David still had the unbalancing feeling that Hambly wasn’t asking questions he cared about. Until the next one, which Hambly delivered after moving to the edge of the sofa.

“What about the John Birch Society?”

“Janelle Vonn?”

Hambly said nothing. But he looked at David with a pugnacious blankness.

“Actually,” said David, “she did mention the John Birch Society a few times. She asked me about them. What I knew. If they were legal. If they were good.”

“Legal?”

“She wasn’t sure at first if they were a legitimate group,” said David, “or perhaps an outlawed one.”

“What do you mean by at first?”

“When she first mentioned them.”

“Which was?” asked Hambly.

“Four, five years ago.”

“Did she know any members?”

“My father and mother are Birchers. Not that she knew them very well.”

“Give me the names of four of her friends,” said Hambly.

David nodded but didn’t speak. He regarded the dimple and blue eyes of Special Agent Hambly. Saw that the dimple was too deep for a razor to safely negotiate. Little sprout of black whiskers dead center in the man’s chin.

“No,” said David.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like your attitude or your manners,” said David.

“Are you a friend of Roger Stoltz?”

“Yes.”

“Howard Langton?”

“Yes.”

“Good friends with them, Reverend Becker?”

“Not close.”

“Close enough to have dinner with Langton and Janelle the night she died?”

David’s heart fluttered. “That dinner date was canceled.”

Hambly squared the briefcase on the ottoman. The two latches burst upward with loud clicks and flashes of gold. Hambly slipped out a single 8¹/²-by-11 black-and-white photograph. Pinching it with his forefinger and thumb, he held it up for David to see.

David remembered walking up to Janelle’s door that evening. As in the picture.

Hambly held up another. David remembered sitting at the dinette in Janelle’s cheerful little cottage with her and Howard Langton. All laughing. As in the picture. Who could possibly have taken these?

“There are more.”

“Why did you take them?”

“In conjunction with routine surveillance. And they turned out to be, well…useful.”

“What exactly is this about?” asked David. “What exactly do you want?”

“First let me tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to have to show these pictures to anybody. I really mean that.”

“And only I can prevent it.”

“Of course you can. Just tell me some stories.”

“About who?”

“Start with your father and Roger Stoltz. Tell me about their political activities and plans. Their personal opinions and relationships. Their faults and foibles. We know they’re Birchers. We can handle the Birchers. And we know about the Klan. We can handle them, too. But we’re hearing about this new thing down south, the National Volunteer Police. And we’re hearing about it right here in Orange County. We’re seeing ‘Support Your Local Police’ bumper stickers given out at Max’s meetings. We wonder if there might be a kind of bridge. A JBS bridge leading back to the Klan. Nobody heard Birchers crying when King got shot. President Johnson, being a Texan, is very concerned about white hate.”

“Sweet Jesus in heaven.”

“But our concerns don’t stop with Mr. Stoltz and Mr. Becker. We’re interested in everyone you know, Reverend. Nick is a terrific detective. You two must talk. And Andy’s ingratiated himself with the Dessingers. I wonder at all he knows about this county. And look at your large and growing congregation. We’d love to know what certain of your believers are really doing and thinking. For instance the Robinsons, who are former members of the Socialist Workers Party. Or Dyson Krenek, who has a very personal relationship with a United States senator whose name I can’t reveal. And there is the Martinez family, with blood ties to César Chávez. And poor Gina Ritter, with her husband a Democratic Party leader plugged into Hollywood and her son plugged into a heroin needle. Even the inmates you counsel at the jail, they must have some interesting stories to tell.”

“You’re a pestilence.”

“Or Bob Washburn-Dr. Robert Washburn-who teaches history and espouses Marxism out at the University of California at Irvine. How many students has he signed into membership in the American Communist Party?”

“None, that I know of.”

“But wouldn’t it be good to really know for sure?”

David felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach. He stood, took a deep breath, sat back down.

“And who really runs the RoMar Orange Sunshine plant?” asked the agent. “Is it Max Becker or Marie Stoltz?”

“How would I know? Who cares?”

“We care. We are exactly who cares. Odd, isn’t it? Orange Sunshine. Same name for LSD and for Stoltz’s asphalt cleaner?”

David looked at Hambly but could hardly form thoughts, let alone answers.

“Reverend,” said Hambly, “I’d be happy with information on just about anybody in your congregation. You have a lot of friends. I just want you to share once in a while. That’s all. We don’t have to meet. You never have to see me again. You just call me at a number I’ll give you before I leave, and you say it’s Judas. You just say, hello, Hambly, this is Judas. I thought of that code name just for you.”

“You are repugnant to me in every way possible,” said David.

“Back at you, Rev. I take it we have a deal. You want these?”

“Leave them on the sofa.”

“Tell me about your father and Stoltz,” said Hambly.

“Tell you what?”

“When they met. How they met. Are they faithful to their wives? What do they talk about at those long dinners? Are they really behind Nixon or isn’t he tough enough on Communism for them? What do they really think of him? And Pat? What do they think of her? Mainly, what in hell’s this National Volunteer Police? We don’t think it’s anything like a traditional volunteer service, where you get to dress up in a cute uniform and help out the local cops.”

“I can’t do this right here, right now.”

“I understand, David. I really do. Here. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

He handed David an FBI card with a handwritten number on the back.

“Stoltz and Marie happy?”

“I really don’t know,” said David.

“You’ve been their family minister for almost three years now. I use the word ‘family’ loosely, since they don’t have children.”

“We don’t have those kinds of discussions.”

“Maybe you should.”

Hambly set the photographs on the sofa. Swung down the briefcase lid and snapped it shut.

“Well?” he asked. “Anything else?”

“No.”

They stood and Hambly offered his hand.

“Get out of my house,” said David.

“Have a far-out and groovy afternoon, Rev.”

WHEN HAMBLY had gone David called the FBI number on the card. A businesslike male voice answered, “Good afternoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” so he hung up.

He slid to his knees and rested his forehead on the beige carpet. Arms around his middle. Prayed as hard as he’d ever prayed that news of his dinner with Janelle Vonn and what had happened after would never come out. Not to mention pictures.