Phyllis laughed. She asked, "Can you work with her?"

"I can work with you, so I'm sure I can work with her."

I thought I heard a sharp breath. I think I had just worn out her patience for my insolence. Part of the fun of this job was seeing how far I could push it. The Army, peculiar institution that it is, tends to be fairly stiff regarding such issues as insubordination and disrespect to superiors. Candor is permitted, even encouraged, so long as it is rendered respectfully. Of course, one senior officer's interpretation of respect can differ substantially from another's, so you have to watch your P's and Q's. The CIA, also a fairly hierarchical organization, is sort of a halfway house between a martial culture and a civilian one, and you have a little more leeway to be a pain in the ass.

Back to Phyllis. She said, "I think it would be invaluable to have the Defense Secretary's own investigative staff in on this. The Pentagon is, after all, a fortress of sorts. You should… partner with her."

"You mean, use her as a Trojan horse?"

"You know how much I dislike analogies. You shouldn't oversimplify complex situations." She added, after a long pause, "But yes, that one fits."

Lest you think I'm a complete fool, it was Phyllis, after all, who dispatched me to this death scene in the first place, and nothing she does, or thinks, is serendipitous. She is well aware of my nosy, mulish ways, my propensity to rush around corners, my… well, enough virtues. The larger point is, I was the sole military person in her office, Mr. Daniels was an employee of the Pentagon, and it was suddenly clear why she picked me for this job.

And now she was exploiting one Trojan horse to recruit another- a frightening display of how her mind works.

The truth is, our relationship is no more or less complicated than that between a cat and a mouse. I'm nimble and quick. And so is she, with a facile mind and razorlike paws. It's sort of fun, also scary, and often dangerous. But the larger truth is, I wanted a piece of this case.

Phyllis mentioned, "Incidentally, Bis dat qui cito dat."

In plain English, he gives twice who gives promptly-and I understood what she meant, and why. As soon as Clifford Daniels's identity was nailed down, via witnesses, personal identity cards, dental records, and/or fingerprints, the Arlington Police Department public affairs people would issue a standard public notice. With luck, the local press might not recognize the significance of Daniels's name before they filed their late edition; without luck, some enterprising reporter would run Clifford's name through Lexis, Google, or Yahoo! and get an interesting hit. Either way, by morning, the nuts and junkies would be on this like flies on poop.

Washington has always thrived on juicy rumors and corpulent conspiracy theories, fueled by amateur Oliver Stones-people with dark outlooks, overheated imaginations, whose mental bolts could stand a good tightening. But the proliferation of cable news channels, talk radio, and Internet blogs has changed a beltway pastime into a national frenzy. Every paranoid idiot now has an outlet and an audience. A few even have network anchor jobs.

I informed Phyllis, "That isn't my problem."

"It is now. Speed, Drummond. Get this done quickly." Right.

She agreed to call Major Tran's office and work out some kind of bureaucratic entente, and I told her what I needed when I returned to the office… starting with a new job.

I snapped shut the cell, stepped back inside, and rejoined Major Tran, who was still pretending to study a piece of faux artwork on the wall.

I nodded at her. She nodded back.

"When did you first figure me out?" I asked her.

"I don't know. Maybe… the instant you claimed you're FBI."

"Really? I was obnoxious, overbearing, and a prick. What gave me away?"

"You were all of the above. You just don't fit the mold."

"I'm… devastated."

"You'll get over it."

"I'm even wearing fresh undershorts."

"Thank you for sharing that." She smiled. "You forgot your look of wholesome goodliness."

We walked together, she and I, back to the bedroom and Detective Sergeant Enders.

CHAPTER FOUR

If possible the smell had worsened to the point that Bian Tran refreshened her disinfectant the moment we reentered the bedroom. Our newly erected partnership apparently had limits; she never offered me a dab.

Tim Reynolds was still painstakingly lifting lint and particles off the bed and dropping them into labeled plastic Baggies.

Enders, still with an eye on the briefcase, was conferring with another gent, who also wore a cheap sports coat and bad necktie-it had green and yellow polka dots. As he spoke, he kept glancing at his notebook, presumptive evidence that he also was a detective.

Clifford Daniels remained naked-and dead.

In fact, as we entered the detective was informing Enders, "… suicide. Yeah, I'm comfortable with that. I guess I'd feel better if I knew something about his life, whether he fits into a suicidal profile. But… look… gun in his own hand, no break-in, the overall physical arrangement… it's fairly clear-cut."

"Yeah… but…"

Before he could finish that "but," I chose to intervene. "Major Tran and I are equally satisfied it was suicide."

Enders glanced in my direction. "Did I ask your opinion?"

"That was more than an opinion."

It got a little frosty in the room. "What are you talking about?"

"As there's no apparent reason to suspect foul play, Major Tran and I are seizing Daniels's briefcase as government property. It's immaterial to your investigation and we're asserting the right of higher domain."

"The…? What in the hell are you talking about?"

For his edification, Bian explained, "It's a complicated legal theory. Something to do with big dogs, small dogs, and, if I recall correctly… urinating on trees."

Enders looked at me like I was nuts.

"That briefcase is mine," I said, and stepped toward the bed and the briefcase.

He put a hand on my arm. "Welcome to Arlington County, pal. Higher domain, my ass-my beat, my briefcase. I decide what's relevant and what's not."

"Not this time."

"This time, every time." I took another step toward the bed, and he said, "Touch that case and I'll slap cuffs on you."

Bian and I traded looks and shared the same disquieting thought. Somebody needed to play good cop. I can do that, though it's not really my forte, and in any event, the slip was already showing beneath my sheep's clothing. Besides, differences in uniforms aside, a cop is a cop, and Bian was a cop, and she could talk the talk. She said to Enders, "Barry, do you have doubts about this being suicide?"

"Well… I… uh…" It seemed Enders either had none, or at least none sufficiently evolved to be expressed.

"Because I agree with Drummond," Bian continued. "So does your detective. He called it clear-cut and he's right. The man killed himself."

"Nothing's firm until I get results from forensics, and until I know something about the victim… what might've led to this. You're a cop. You know that."

"I know how it works procedurally, Barry. I'm also aware that you have certain leeway for extraordinary circumstances."

He looked at her. "I have an ongoing investigation here. That briefcase could contain evidence relevant to my investigation, and until I know otherwise, it stays in my custody."

"Should we find any, I'll call immediately. Promise."

"Come on. I shouldn't need to remind you about chain of custody issues."

"I…" Bian paused and looked at me: Cop-to-cop, she was getting the crap kicked out of her.

This sounded like a good time for a little expert legal advice- meaning vague, selective, and possibly misleading advice. I turned to Bian and asked, "Your office-is it an investigative agency or a law enforcement office?"