Maybe if I watched more soap operas I'd have a better idea how to handle these things. Maybe not.

I said to George, "Thanks for the lecture… advice… whatever." In other words, fuck you.

He started to say something, but apparently thought better of it, spun around, and left.

I walked back to the conference room, where I saw Jennie speaking quietly into her cell phone. She saw me and punched off, but I must've looked guilty or something, because she asked, "Was that about me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a lousy liar."

"That really hurts Jennie. I'm a lawyer."

She laughed. "Cut it out."

"All right, truth-George wanted to know if I thought you liked him. I think he's… you know… a little infatuated with you."

She poked my shoulder. "He told you I'm a scheming bitch. He warned you to watch your ass around me. Right?"

I suppose I looked a little surprised.

She laughed. "I told you-I'm smart."

"But I-"

"Look, it's not the first time. Meany began playing this twisted game the day I started working for him."

"Why?"

She considered my question. She said, "How well do you know George?"

"I never drop the soap when we shower together."

She laughed.

She took my arm, an intimate gesture that surprised me, and began leading me down the hall. For some reason, my thoughts drifted to Janet up in Boston, and I felt a twinge of guilt I clearly did not deserve. I mean, this was perfectly innocent-just two professional colleagues who coincidentally had a few different glands, having an innocuous conversation in the hallway of a government building. Her attractiveness aside, our relationship was entirely professional, we both had enough on our agendas, and any thought of sex was trouble.

Agent Margold, incidentally, smelled great, no longer lemony, more lavenderish, which is actually a big turn-on. I mean, there's something about flowers and sex, like chocolate syrup and ice cream. Why else do guys bring flowers to dates? Right. Jennie remarked, "George has a reputation in the Bureau. He's a great agent, resourceful, diligent, and clever. He's broken some big cases, and it's been noticed by the powers that be"

I sensed that she didn't expect me to comment, and I didn't. She continued, "It's gone to George's head. He's become… obsessed with his own success. Driven."

"Go on."

She said, "When the SAC job opened a few months ago, it was between me and a more senior agent. The other agent was already assigned to the D.C office, was popular with the rank and file, and he knew the local ropes. Through the grapevine I heard he badly wanted the job." After a moment she added, "I let it be known I wasn't interested."

"Why?"

"The other man was a great agent, I thought he deserved it, and I thought he'd do a great job. Of course, George was the real reason."

"Again, why?"

"Wrong chemistry… it wouldn't work."

"Again-why?"

"Let me finish. John Fisk got the job. About a month later he died."

"Natural causes or line of duty?"

"What's natural for our business? He walked into a sniper's crosshairs."

"I don't recall hearing about it."

"You wouldn't. He was at a conference in San Francisco. Big news out there, page four in the Post here."

"Oh."

"Here's the irony-the conference topic concerned policing techniques to handle the recent spate of sniper killings. He walked out of his hotel for breakfast, and somebody with a long-range rifle put two shots through his forehead."

"I'll bet that livened up the conference."

"Not really. John was supposed to give the keynote that morning."

"Big hole in the agenda"

"And in John."

"Right, and in John. But to whack a cop at a cop convention… that's- Did they get the guy?"

"Still, at large" She added, "But we have a strong suspicion who was behind it."

"I have an alibi for that weekend."

She punched my shoulder again. "Prior to John's assignment to D.C., he led a Long Island unit that specialized in mob cases. He broke some big ones that really hurt them."

"I thought offing feds and cops was sort of taboo with the goombahs. Isn't it supposed to be bad for business or something?"

She nodded. "Yes, we make it very bad for their business. But they make exceptions. What we think was something John did, somebody perceived as personal." She shrugged. "Anyway, we'll find them-and we'll get them. Murdering one of us is something we take personally."

It struck me that the mob and FBI are in some ways similar, like yin and yang, both being sort of fraternal organizations with distinct cultures, and a taste for what the mob calls revenge and the Bureau calls justice. It's interesting. Back to the subject, I said, "So you ended up with the job after all?"

"And with George." She smiled faintly "You don't say no to Director Townsend if you want a future in the Bureau."

"I'll bet. What happened?"

"What happened?" She paused as though this was awkward. "Coming from the Behavioral Science Unit, I'm regarded as an outsider. I'm out of the mold. They're mostly lawyers, former cops, and accountants. I'm neither fish nor fowl, and there've been some transference issues."

"Meaning what?"

"Well… I got this job because John Fisk was murdered."

"They can't hold that against you,"

"Consciously, they don't. But subconsciously, it's a factor and a fact." She added, "I don't blame them."

"Sure you do. They're assholes."

She laughed. "I'm a shrink, Sean. I've been trained to view people and situations with clinical detachment. It's a perfectly natural response, really-a common form of grief, actually." After a moment she added, "And yes, they're all assholes."

But in retrospect, a few disconnected pieces and loose threads fell into place. Like the pair of agents at Belknap's house that morning twiddling their thumbs. Or the peculiar reticence of the agent who refused to give Jennie a full and comprehensive explanation about Fineberg's murder. It was reassuring to learn they weren't just idiots and incompetents. It was disturbing to learn they were sandbagging Jennie Margold, my putative partner. This was a little scary. I asked her, "What's Meany's role in this?"

"He perceives me as a competitor."

"I see."

"Do you?" she asked. "I'm now one of the five highest-ranking women in the Bureau. At thirty-five, I'm the youngest. There are only three female SACs, the Bureau has an awful reputation with feminists, a clique of females on the Hill are pressuring for reform… and, by the way, two high-level assistant directorships are scheduled to open next year."

I said, "And George is undermining you?"

"Destroying me."

"Like… how?"

"Every trick in the book-isolation, cutting off my information flow, spreading rumors, stealing credit for my work. He's very clever." After a moment she confided, "He's making my life hell."

In fact, George had made my life very difficult for a few weeks and I hadn't even been working under him. But basically, set aside his vanity, ambition, and penchant for treachery, and George wasn't such a bad guy.

We had passed through the exit and were now outside in the parking lot, standing beside Jennie's shiny black government sedan. Somewhere nearby, a helicopter was waiting to whisk us off to Richmond and Mrs. Calhoun Barnes. It was an ideal night for flying-a beautiful evening, not a cloud in the sky, lots of glittery stars, the air still and humid. Also nearby, somebody, perhaps named Jason Barnes, was plotting another murder.

We stopped walking, and she continued to hold my arm, and it became, well… a little distracting. Between this case and her diabolical boss, Jennifer Margold was under crushing pressure. She looked nonplussed, but I wondered if it was getting under her skin. The sexes tend to handle these things differently. Men get grouchy, and/or they drink a lot, or they climb up on a watch-tower with a sniper rifle. Women feel compelled to be nurtured, they need physical contact, reassurance. It all goes back to the womb, I think. I'm not really good at reading women. I said, "You're smarter than him."