Shanahan was dressed in a dark suit and muted tie. He was sporting the kind of earphone a Secret Service agent might wear. He was a tall Black Irish fellow, a refugee of the turmoil in Northern Ireland. Bobby Bo had hired him on the spot, and for the past five years, Shanahan had been heading up Bobby Bo's security staff. He and Bobby Bo got along famously.

"Did you call?" Shanahan asked.

"Come in and close the door," Bobby Bo said.

Shanahan did as he was told.

"The Prevention Committee has its first assignment," Bobby Bo said.

"Excellent," Shanahan said with his soft Gaelic accent.

"Sit down and I'll tell you about it," Bobby Bo said.

Five minutes later, the two men walked out of the library. In the foyer they parted company. Bobby Bo went to the threshold of the sunken living room and looked out over the crowd of revelers. "How come it's so quiet in here!" Bobby Bo shouted. "What is this, a funeral? Come on, let's party!"

…

From the foyer, Shanahan descended into the underground garage. He got into his black Cherokee and drove out into the night. He took the ring road around the city, pushing his car as much as he thought he could get away with. He exited the freeway and drove due west. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a rutted, gravel parking lot of a popular nightspot called El Toro. On top of the building was a life-sized red neon outline of a bull. Shanahan parked at the periphery, leaving a wide space between his vehicle and the other mostly broken-down pickup trucks. He didn't want anybody opening their doors and denting his new car.

Even before he got near the entrance to the bar, he could hear the thundering bass of the Hispanic music; inside it was just shy of overpowering. The popular watering hole was crowded and smoke-filled. The patrons were mostly men, although there were a few brightly dressed, raven-haired women. There was a long bar on one side and a series of booths on the other. In the middle were tables and chairs and a small dance floor. An old-fashioned, brightly illuminated jukebox was against the wall. In the back was an archway through which a series of pool tables could be seen.

Shanahan scanned the people at the bar. He didn't see whom he was looking for. He walked down the bank of booths with no success. Giving up, he approached the busy bar. He literally had to squeeze between people. Then there was the problem of getting the bartender's attention.

Waving a ten-dollar bill finally succeeded where shouts did not. Shanahan handed the bill to the man.

"I'm looking for Carlos Mateo," Shanahan yelled.

The money disappeared as if it were a magic trick.

The bartender didn't speak. He merely pointed to the back of the room and mimed the motion of shooting pool.

Shanahan weaved his way across the small dance floor. The backroom was not quite as crowded as the front. He found the man he was searching for at the second table.

Shanahan had spent a good deal of time and effort recruiting for the proposed Prevention Committee. After following up multiple leads and after a lot of interviewing, he'd settled on Carlos. Carlos had escaped from prison in Mexico and had been on the run. Six months previously, he'd managed to cross into the United States on his first attempt. He'd come to Higgins and Hancock in desperate need of a job.

What had impressed Shanahan about the man was his cavalier attitude toward death. Although Carlos was reticent concerning the details, Shanahan learned that the reason he'd been imprisoned in Mexico was because he had knifed to death an acquaintance. In his job at Higgins and Hancock, Carlos was involved in the deaths of more than two thousand animals per day. Emotionally he seemed to view the activity of killing on par with cleaning his truck.

Shanahan stepped into the cone of light illuminating the second pool table. Carlos was in the process of lining up a shot and didn't respond to Shanahan's greeting. Shanahan had to wait.

"Mierda!"Carlos exclaimed when his ball refused to drop. He slapped the table's rail and straightened up. Only then did he look at Shanahan.

Carlos was a dark-haired, dark-complected wiry man with multiple flamboyant tattoos on both arms. His face was dominated by bushy eyebrows, a pencil-line mustache, and hollow cheeks. His eyes were like black marbles. Over his torso he was wearing a black leather vest that showed off his lean musculature as well as his tattoos. He was not wearing a shirt.

"I've got a job for you," Shanahan said. "A job like we talked about. You interested? It's got to be now."

"You pay me, I'm interested," Carlos said. He had a strong Spanish accent.

"Come with me," Shanahan directed. He pointed through the archway toward the front door.

Carlos handed off his cue stick, gave a couple of crumpled bills to his complaining opponent, then followed Shanahan.

The two men didn't try to talk until they were outside.

"I don't know how you can stand that noise in there for more than five minutes," Shanahan remarked.

"How come, man?" Carlos asked. "It's good music."

With the rain falling steadily, Shanahan brought Carlos to his Cherokee and the two men climbed inside.

"Let's make this fast," Shanahan said. "The name is Marsha Baldwin. She's an attractive, tall blonde who's about twenty-five."

Carlos's face twisted into a grin of pleasure, making his mustache look like two dashes under his narrow nose.

"The reason you got to move fast," Shanahan explained, "is because at this very moment she's where you work."

"She's at Higgins and Hancock?" Carlos asked.

"That's right," Shanahan said. "She's in the admin section looking into records she's not supposed to. You won't be able to miss her. If you have trouble finding her, ask the guard. He's supposed to keep his eye on her."

"How much you pay?" Carlos asked.

"More than we talked about, providing you do it now," Shanahan said. "I want you to go this minute."

"How much?" Carlos asked.

"A hundred now and two hundred later if she disappears without a trace." Shanahan said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He held it up so Carlos could see it. It was bathed in red light from the neon bull.

"What about my job?" Carlos asked.

"Like I promised," Shanahan said. "I'll get you off the kill floor by the end of the month. Where do you want to go, the boning room or the carcass room?"

"The boning room," Carlos said.

"So we have a deal?" Shanahan.

"Sure," Carlos said. He took the bill, folded it, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He started to get out of the car. It was as if he'd been asked to rake leaves or shovel snow.

"Don't screw it up," Shanahan said.

"It's going to be easy with her in Higgins and Hancock," Carlos said.

"That's what we figured," Shanahan said.

Lifting her arms over her head, Marsha stretched. She'd been bending over the open file-cabinet drawer long enough to make her back stiff. She used her hip to close the drawer, and it made a definitive click as it slid home. Picking up her cellular phone, she headed for the USDA office door. While she walked, she punched in Kim's phone number.

As the call went through, she opened the door and looked up and down the silent hall. She was pleased not to see anyone. While she'd been going through the files, she'd heard the guard pass by and even hesitate outside the door on several occasions. He'd not bothered her, but his loitering had raised her anxiety level. She knew that if he approached her, she'd feel trapped in the seemingly deserted building. She'd not seen a single one of the cleaning people who were supposed to be there.

"This better be you," Kim said without saying hello.

"That's a strange way to answer the phone," Marsha said with a nervous laugh. She closed the USDA office door and started up the deserted hall.