"Larry, too. The limo was discovered in the woods, maybe three miles outside Culpeper, Virginia. Larry Elwood was in the front seat."

"Should I be an optimist?"

"It wouldn't look right on you."

"Right."

"Unfortunately, the car and Larry were incinerated."

Unfortunate for us, but even more unfortunate for Larry I thought. Yet for some reason I was not surprised by this revelation. "Okay, details."

"The car was spotted by a helicopter from the Culpeper Sheriff's Department. The pilot saw the smoke, called it in, and the local fire department promptly responded. Everything was already toast."

"Fast fire."

"Very fast. The car, the car's interior, and Eftvood were soaked with gasoline. But Elwood was beyond caring, having already been shot in the head several times. Incendiary grenades were used for ignition, at least five, some taped to the underside, along the gas tank, all rigged to explode simultaneously. This wasn't amateur work."

"Eliminating all forensic traces and evidence, right?"

"And our key suspect."

"So Larry's probably not an accomplice."

"Don't be hasty. Could be you're right, and he and the car were kidnapped. That would assume the killers knew the car type and plate numbers, as well as Larry's route and morning routine. Leading back to our insider theory. Or could be Larry was part of the scheme, they recognized he was an obvious lead and decided to eliminate him before he compromised them. In that case, they're really brutal bastards."

I thought the morning murders already established that.

"Another thing," she continued. "You recall that Peterson ordered Chuck Wardell to give us the names of everybody involved in the Hawk's security detail?"

"Okay."

"They maintain three shifts for the Hawk's residence. The shift we found this morning-the dead shift-that's the B shift. The C shift was supposed to come on duty at 1300 hours. They all showed."

"And the A shift?"

"D shift. There's no A shift-don't ask." So I didn't and she continued, "We've accounted for everybody but one agent. Guy named Jason Barnes. Since he went off duty yesterday at 1300 hours, nobody's heard from him."

"Maybe he left town."

"Maybe. His supervisor's next door. I thought you might want to be there."

"Good. Let's talk to him."

We proceeded to the office next door, where Agent Mark Kinney was seated at a table swilling a diet Pepsi. He was roughly my age, bony-faced, dark-haired, retreating hairline, fit, and from all outward appearances, an everyday Joe, which I'm sure fit nicely with his job description.

As we entered the room he looked up with an expression I judged to be slightly pissed off and distrustful. I know that look. I get it a lot.

Jennie handled the introductions as we fell into chairs directly across from Agent Kinney. We all shook hands. Jennie smiled and in a friendly tone advised him not to regard this session as a threatening or antagonistic interrogation. She suggested he should look upon this as simply an amiable and innocent background chat between three federal officers.

Kinney polished off his Pepsi without a word.

They then chitchatted about topics small and large-family, Washington, and why Dallas always kicks the crap out of the Redskins. So we learned that Agent Kinney had a wife and 2.3 kids, twelve years in the Secret Service, he couldn't wait to get out of house duty and back on the travel squad, and other useless trivia. This is called establishing rapport and loosening up the subject. I call it wasting time.

There are two broad schools of thought regarding interrogation methods. The one in vogue down in Quantico these days is called, I think, the Lawrence Welk technique. Klieg lights, rubber truncheons, and demeaning or harsh questions are passe. Play soft music, avoid frightening gestures, establish a collegial relationship, and be sure to treat the target with the same courtesy and respect with which you'd like to be treated. If I understand this method correctly, the subject eventually thinks he's in a dentist's chair and opens wide.

A lot of experts and supposed studies advocate this technique. In my view, if you want to save time and get the truth, a friendly knee in the nuts is always a useful way to start off. Metaphorically, of course. Except sometimes.

Anyway, the run-up to this soft sell takes a while, but this guy made his living guarding windbags, and he showed the patience of Job until Jennie, in a tone meticulously modulated to be non-threatening and nonpatronizing, mentioned, "Listen, we've managed to contact everybody in your team except" -she glanced at her notepad-"except Agent Jason Barnes."

"Jason? Well, that's odd."

"Yes. Isn't it?"

"Yeah… it really is. You've tried his home number?"

"A team was even dispatched to his home… in Springfield, right?" Kinney nodded, and Jennie informed him, "He's not there. Nor is his car."

"I've got his cell number and pager number in my pocket. Maybe if-"

"Ditto. We're getting his electronic answering service."

"Well… hmmm. That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe there's a simple explanation. Could he have left town?"

"Jason wouldn't… I mean, it's SOP… He'd have to inform me, and it wouldn't be like-"

"But he's single, isn't he?"

"Yes… but-"

"So it's springtime. Maybe he's shacked up with somebody"

He chuckled. "Not a chance."

"Why? He's a normal, healthy heterosexual, isn't he?"

"Listen, Jason Barnes is so clumsy with the ladies, it's laughable. Also he's a very devout Christian. I'd bet my month's pay he's not shacked up."

Wisely, Jennie changed tacks, and put the onus on Kinney She smiled pleasantly and said, "Uh… well, look, I'm shooting in the dark here. Help me get to know Jason."

"Get to- Wait a minute. Is he suspected of something?"

Clearly, Agent Kinney knew this wasn't a friendly session, and clearly he knew Jason Barnes was possibly a big problem for him. He was Barnes's boss, and if his trusted subordinate had helped whack the man and wife they were guarding, in addition to four of his comrades-in-arms, Agent Kinney was going to have an ugly notation on his next evaluation.

Also I thought Kinney was probably a decent guy and even a good leader. Displaying loyalty down is always an admirable trait in a boss-except now.

So I lied. "We need to ask everybody if they saw anything suspicious over the past few days. Maybe if we knew a little about Barnes it would help us track him down."

Kinney looked at Jennie, then at me. He said, "Check his file."

"It's on the way over," Jennie replied. "But we're in a bit of a hurry here. Give us a shortcut."

I thought, for a brief moment, that Kinney was going to mumble into his cuff link, "Agent in peril… send help."

Instead he said, "All right. For starters, he's incredibly bright. Grew up in Richmond. Father's a judge… I think, a federal judge. Jason's a VMI grad, and he spent three years as a Marine infantry lieutenant. Excellent record as a Marine. Excellent record as an agent. Personally and professionally, the guy's clean as a whistle."

In fact, Mr. Kinney's brief biography exposed more about Jason Barnes than he probably knew or possibly intended. As an Army brat and as a soldier, I had several times lived or been stationed in the South. When I get tired, my childhood drawl sometimes slips through, and I still pick politely at corn bread and pecan pie, which I hate, but you don't insult the natives.

Broadly speaking, the South of my childhood produced two types of white southern male. First was the shitkicker, product of an agrarian culture, pickup trucks, and Waylon Jennings; if they learned how to add and spell, they aspired to attend Ole Miss, or Bear Bryant U, where pigskin, beer tasting, and frat partying were regarded as serious, taxing majors.