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“If you will excuse us, Mr. Bendick,” Washington said. “We have an appointment with the chief.”

“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Kenny said, waving them toward one of the steel doors.

“Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said. “This is official police business, to which, unfortunately, I cannot make you privy at this time. Perhaps you’d like to stay here and continue your conversation with Mr. Bendick?”

Sergeant Kenny waited until Cohen and Matt had gone through the steel door, then followed them through it.

Special Agent Bendick looked at the closed door, then at Mickey O’Hara, who was again raising his camera, and then, mustering what dignity he could, marched out of the building.

“I have a confession to make,” Washington said. “I was not overjoyed when Commissioner Coughlin told me Mickey was coming with us. But now?”

“He was magnificent,” Cohen said.

“What did Mickey call him, ‘J. Edgar Jr.’?” Matt asked, laughing.

“I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him,” Cohen said.

“Fuck him,” Washington said, coldly.

Matt was surprised. Washington very rarely used vulgar language.

Washington turned to Sergeant Kenny and offered his hand.

“My name is Washington, Sergeant,” he said.

“How are you?” Kenny said. “Payne said you were about as big as me.”

“And this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney.” They shook hands.

“Detective Lassiter was supposed to tell you we would be here as soon as we got ourselves settled…”

“She’s in with the chief. Come on, I’ll take you in.”

“Thank you.”

“You got any kin down this way, Lieutenant?” Kenny asked.

“Not so far as I know, but a first glance at the genetic evidence does seem to make that a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed-in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit-man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sensed his secretary’s presence at his office door and raised his eyes to her from the documents on his desk.

“Yes, Helen?” he asked, a slight tone of impatience in his voice. He had asked not to be disturbed if at all possible.

“I know, I know. But it’s Burton White, the SAC in Mobile…”

“Put him through. Thank you, Helen.”

Walter Davis had known Burton White since they had been at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and they had crossed paths often since. They had risen through the ranks together. Not quite as high together, as Philadelphia was a more important post than Mobile.

It is always pleasant, Davis thought, as he waited for the light on his telephone to illuminate, to touch base with a peer who has not risen quite as far as oneself.

The light came on, and Davis grabbed the phone.

“Burton, you old sonofabitch! How are you, buddy? How’s things down there in the sunny South?”

“It’s raining, and this is the Heart of Dixie, Walt. It says so on our license plates.”

“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, buddy. What can Philadelphia do for our outpost in the Heart of Dixie?”