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wire from the FBI fingerprint files and the sergeant ripped it off the machine and took it to the lieutenant’s desk in the corner. The lieutenant read halfway into it and went back to the beginning and started again.
    â€œA Federal snoop.”
    â€œFrom Justice.”
    â€œIt’s an FSS number. She was Secret Service.” The lieutenant sat back and spent ten seconds grinding his knuckles into his eye sockets. He lowered his hands into his lap and kept his eyes shut. “Cripes. I was starting to get a picture.”
    â€œWhat picture?”
    â€œI had it worked out. She was a hooker and she rolled some capo from the Mob, not knowing who he was. So the capo sent some of his boys out to take care of her. But this blows it all to hell.”
    The sergeant said, “Maybe we’d better call Justice.”
    3:40 A.M. A telephone was ringing, disturbing David Lime’s sleep. He listened to it ring. He had never fallen victim to the compulsion to answer every telephone that rang within earshot; anyhow this was not his own bed, not his own bedroom, not his own telephone; but it disturbed his sleep.
    He lay on his back and listened to it ring and finally the mattress gave a little heave and a soft buttock banged into his leg. There was a clumsy rattle of receiver against cradle and then Bev said in the dark, “Who the hell is this? … Shit, all right, hold on.” Then she was poking him in the ribs. “David?”
    He sat up on his elbow and took the phone from her. “Uh?”
    â€œMr. Lime? Chad Hill. I’m damned sorry to have to ——”
    â€œThe hell time’s it?”
    â€œAbout a quarter to four, sir.”
    â€œA quarter to four,” David Lime said disagreeably. “Is that a fact.”
    â€œYes, sir. I——”
    â€œYou called me to tell me it’s a quarter to four.”
    â€œSir, I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”
    â€œHow’d you know where to find me?” He knew Hill had something to tell him but first he had to clear the sleep from his head.
    â€œMr. DeFord gave me the number, sir.”
    Bev was getting out of bed, storming into the bathroom. Lime dragged a hand down his jaw. “Bless Mr. DeFord. Bless the little son of a bitch.” The bathroom door closed—not quite a slam. A ribbon of light appeared beneath it.
    â€œSir, one of our agents has been murdered.”
    Lime closed his eyes: a grimace. Not Smith’s dead. Not Jones has been killed. No. “One of our agents has been murdered.” Like a fourteen-year-old imitating Reed Hadley’s narration for a Grade B Warner’s picture: a mausoleum tone, One of our aircraft is missing! From what plastic packaging factory did they obtain these kids?
    â€œAll right, Chad. One of our agents is missing. Now——”
    â€œNot missing, sir. Murdered. I’m down here at——”
    â€œWhat agent has been murdered?”
    â€œBarbara Norris, sir. The police called the office and I was on night duty. I called Mr. DeFord and he said I’d better get in touch with you.”
    â€œYes, I imagine he did.” Grandon Pass-the-Buck DeFord. Lime sat up, squeezed his eyes shut and popped them open. “All right. Where are you now and what’s happened?”
    â€œI’m at police headquarters, sir. Suppose I put Lieutenant Ainsworth on, he can explain what they’ve got.”
    A new voice came on the line: “Mr. Lime?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œEd Ainsworth. Detective Lieutenant down here. We had a DOA tonight, a young black girl. The FBI identifies her as Barbara Norris and they gave us an FSS service number for her so I called your office. You’re in charge of her section, is that right?”
    â€œI’m the Deputy Assistant Director.” He managed to say it with a straight face. “DeFord’s the Assistant Director in charge of Protective