Dumb-shit. “No, I mean about the case. Is there a way we could sort of slide our way in, without actually breaking faith with the county police?”

“Oh, the case.” At least the Youssef investigation excited the kid more than the food in front of him. “If you really want to take it from them, we need to press my kidnapping theory. Although we could argue that the mere fact it appears to be job-related-a federal prosecutor, probably killed on orders of a drug dealer-gives us an entrée as well.”

“Yeah.” Jenkins swirled the red wine in his glass, watched the legs run down the side. He had gotten very enthusiastic about wine for a while there, started learning the basics and the vocabulary, then lost interest. Dinner was going to cost him about $140, and he would have to put it on his personal card, given that none of this was authorized, although he would tell the kid it was on the government. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but it seemed unfair somehow. Why shouldn’t an agent be allowed to take an AUSA to a meal, no questions asked? They were talking about a case, damn it, the murder of a federal prosecutor. But it was that kind of loose thinking about his expense account that had caused Jenkins so much grief when they started gunning for him.

“Yeah,” Jenkins repeated. “Thing is, I’m not so sure we want the case, officially. Not the way it is now.”

“What do you mean?” Oh, the kid was a glory hound, wild for the scent.

“They’re gonna drag her to the county grand jury, right? And she’ll probably give in, tell them what she knows. But that’s too public, too drawn out. It builds expectations-and it gives her too much power. I’d like to get to him-and I’m sure it’s a him, fuck that ‘he-or-she’ shit-before this whole thing gets out of hand. Plus, the trail gets colder every day. She says he’s out of town. With our luck he’ll be in Mexico by the time she gives up the name. She could be stalling us for just that reason.”

Gabe chewed thoughtfully, although not thoroughly. When he opened his mouth to speak, he still had a little steak moving around.

“But what else can we do except wait, if we’re not willing to take the case away from the county cops?”

“You’re a federal prosecutor.”

“Yeah.” Realization was dawning, but it was a slow, ponderous dawn. Jenkins preferred young men who thought a little faster on their feet, but he was stuck with this one.

“Example: Collins did a little door-to-door in her neighborhood yesterday, while we were at the interview. One guy said she had a houseguest recently, a black kid who caused all sorts of problems. I say it’s the source. We figure out who his contact is, this allegedly dead guy, and I’ll bet anything it’s a drug dealer. That links her guest to drug dealing, and that means she had a drug dealer staying under her roof.”

Jenkins turned over the palm of his right hand, gesturing Gabe to follow him. But he was still chewing his undercooked-by-his-standards steak.

“RICO statutes,” Jenkins prompted. “You accuse someone of allowing drugs to be dealt from her house, you can file to seize the house, the car. Once her own assets are threatened, she won’t be all Joan of Arc, will she?”

“Bit of a reach. It presumes that we can figure out who the dead contact is and that he’s a drug dealer.”

“Collins said he could have that name in twenty-four hours,” Jenkins said. “Besides, no harm in bluffing, right? We don’t have to actually do any of this. We just have to make her think that we can. But okay, put RICO aside. We also could have her bank records in a day or two, depending on what bank she uses. So many of our old guys are in security gigs around town, they’d let you eyeball her records, probably, if we tell them the paperwork is coming.”

“I’d have to go to Gail…” The kid looked at once nervous andeager, wanting this opportunity, yet fearful of breaking chain of command. Jenkins would never have gotten anywhere if he thought this small. Then again, he might not have gone too far either. It had been such a shock when they came for him, especially when he realized how his colleagues gloated at his fall. Yes, he had been a little pushy and he had courted the media more than he should have. But he’d also been genuinely collegial, a good guy, friendly and helpful. He hadn’t realized that small-minded types could hold even innocuous stuff against you. Pygmies. Fucking pygmies. He wondered if that was a word you were allowed to say anymore, if it was now officially insensitive. But “fuckin’ little people of tribal origin” didn’t have the same ring, did it?

“We don’t need to involve the boss lady just yet. No authorization memo, nothing in writing. You and me, we could just go visit the chick dick at home, unofficial-like. Talk to her. Let me tell you, once you start poking around people’s affairs, you always find something. If all else fails, just say IRS. Everybody cheats on his taxes.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, yeah, of course. We don’t.” Jenkins winked at the boy over his wineglass. He was drinking iced tea and had seemed judgmental when Jenkins ordered alcohol with lunch.

“No, I don’t. For real. I don’t even itemize deductions. Without a house it’s not worth it. And when my dad rigged up an illegal cable box, I told him to take it down or I’d turn him in.”

“You didn’t.” Jenkins tried to make his tone sound admiring, but he was actually thinking, What a stiff-necked little prick.

Ah, well. That just made him even more perfect for the task at hand.

18

“Miss Monaghan?”

Tess was used to being accosted anywhere, anytime in Baltimore, her personal and professional identities forever overlapping. Relatives crashed meetings with clients when she was foolhardy enough to conduct her affairs in public places, while those who knew her through her work had no qualms about confronting her during obvious downtime. Once, a disgruntled city official, unhappy with the effect that Tess’s research had on his divorce settlement, kept up a running commentary on her ethics during a screening of Lawrence of Arabia. He had finally been led out of the Senator Theater by two young ushers, still hissing invectives all the way-“Bitch! Whore! CUNT!”-while Tess stared straight ahead, trying to lose herself in the restored glory of Peter O’Toole’s gaze.

Still, it was disconcerting to have someone address her formally while she was naked except for Jockey underwear.

“Yes, that’s me,” she said, pulling on her bra and T-shirt as quickly as possible.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but you looked too, um, focused to interrupt on the gym floor. I’m Wilma Youssef.”

The first irrelevant thought that crossed Tess’s mind was, But you’re so blond. Silly, she had imagined Youssef’s wife more as a sister-dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive skin. The woman standing at the end of this row of lockers was a petite, blue-eyed blonde. Tess’s second, still-not-on-point reaction was, You’ve kept your face out of the news. Gregory Youssef’s image may have been as ubiquitous as the girl on the Utz potato chip bag, but his wife had managed to stay off camera, no small feat for a grieving widow.

Then, finally, an almost appropriate observation: What did one say to a notorious widow? What did one say to a widow who almost certainly believed that you were an obstacle in her husband’s murder investigation?

“Hi,” Tess said, offering her hand, once her T-shirt was in place. Mrs. Youssef declined to shake.

“I really need to talk to you, but I don’t have much time. My mother-in-law spells the nanny at day’s end, but I hate to impose on her longer than necessary. Can we speak in the café upstairs?”

Tess made a face. There was nothing wrong with the bar-restaurant in the Downtown Athletic Club, but gym was like church to her-a sacred place, yet not one where she wanted to linger once her ablutions were done.