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information. Even if Dean hadn’t been working for the NSA, he would have stuck to one-word answers. He didn’t particularly like being questioned, and while he’d come to respect police officers during his days as the owner of a string of gas stations, he resented the fact that Achilles Gorman treated him more like a suspect than a witness.
    “So Mr. Keys, where does he hang out?”
    “I just call him Keys. His name is Dr. Kegan.”
    “Where does he hang out?”
    “I don’t know. When I was here last we went into town. Some place called Maduro?”
    “Like the cigar?”
    Dean shrugged. “I guess:”
    “It’s not there now.”
    “Don’t know what to tell you.”
    Casper the cat came out, mewing loudly. Gorman stooped down, scratching the animal’s head. He licked Gorman’s fingers as if they were covered with catnip.
    “Dr. Kegan—he a rich guy?” asked Gorman.
    “He’s got some money, but I wouldn’t say he’s rich.”
    “Pretty big house. A lot of property.”
    “Guess it depends on what you mean by rich.”
    The BCI investigator smiled. “Let’s go over your arrival again from the top.”
    “Again?”
    “You know, Mr. Dean, the thing is, this is a pretty serious felony here.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Be better if you cooperated.”
    “You don’t think I did this, do you?”
    “Be better if you cooperated.”

    Eventually, Charlie Dean found himself back at the troopers’ barracks, giving his statement for the third time. Gorman used two fingers to pound it into his computer. At three o’clock, as they waited for the printer to deliver a fresh draft, the investigator picked up his phone and sent one of the troopers to the deli for some sandwiches. That signaled the start of a short interval of nice-cop behavior; the invesdgator got a cola from the soda machine in the lobby and even offered Charlie a plastic cup to use. Charlie stuck with the can.
    Gorman claimed he had a relative who worked for the GSA in Washington, and wanted to know which government agency Charlie worked for.
    “I’m just a government employee and let’s leave it at that,” he said, and the nice-cop routine came to an end.
    They went over the statement twice. Around four, the investigator’s boss came in, a Lieutenant Knapp. Short and so muscular that the bullet-proof vest he was wearing looked like a flat baking pan, Knapp asked Charlie exactly two questions after looking over the statement:
    This true?
    You think your friend did it?
    He answered “yes” and “no,” respectively.
    “You’re done here. Make sure Gorman has a phone number where he can reach you.”
    “He does.” Dean started to leave.
    “If Kegan contacts you,” said Gorman, “we’d appreciate knowing about it.”
    “Sure,” said Dean.
    Gorman frowned but said nothing else.

4

    Rubens spread his forefinger and pinkie apart, nudging the key combination to kill the program. He sat back as the screen blanked, letting all that he had read settle into his brain.
    The premonition of something truly awful lurked in the comers of his consciousness. He sensed that Dean—and thus Desk Three—had inadvertently stumbled upon a conspiracy with the gravest possible consequences. And yet the actual evidence would not have persuaded a logical man that anything more than a sordid murder had taken place. Rubens, a mathematician by training, prided himself on being logical. But he was also the descendant—now some generations removed—of a famous painter, an artistic genius, and as such Rubens could not deny the validity of emotional intelligence and intuition. It was important now to combine the two, to balance premonition with cold analysis.
    To block out fear yet be aware of it.
    Kegan had missed a scheduled contact visit with an FBI agent a day before. That was suggestive, especially since Dean’s latest account made it seem the murder had likely taken place then. Autopsy information would not be available for some time, and the state police had