I was told to wait in reception by a very proper-looking young woman in a dark blue pantsuit. She sat self-importantly behind a sleek walnut desk under recessed lighting. She looked all of twenty-two or twenty-three years old, fresh out of charm school. She acted and spoke as properly as she looked.

“I’ll wait, but let Mr. Lipton know it’s the FBI. It’s important that I see him,” I told her.

The receptionist smiled sweetly, as if she’d heard all this before, then she went back to answering the phone calls coming in on her headset. I sat down and waited patiently; I waited for fifteen minutes. Then I got back up again. I strolled over to the reception desk.

“You told Mr. Lipton that I’m here?” I asked politely. “That I’m with the FBI?”

“I did, sir,” she said in a syrupy voice that was starting to rub me the wrong way.

“I need to see him right now,” I told the girl, and waited until she made another call to Lipton’s assistant.

They talked briefly, then she looked back at me. “Do you have identification, sir?” she asked. She was frowning now.

“I do. They’re called creds.”

“May I see it, please? Your creds.” I showed off my new FBI badge, and she looked it over like a fast-food counterperson inspecting a fifty-dollar bill.

“Could you please wait over at the seating area?” she asked again, only now she seemed a little nervous, and I wondered what Lawrence Lipton’s assistant had told her, what her marching orders were.

“You don’t seem to understand, or I’m not making myself clear,” I finally said. “I’m not here to fool around with you, and I’m not here to wait.”

The receptionist nodded. “Mr. Lipton is in a meeting. That’s all I know, sir.”

I nodded back. “Tell his assistant to pull him out of his meeting right now. Have her tell Mr. Lipton that I’m not here to arrest him yet.”

I wandered back to the seating area, but I didn’t bother to sit. I stood there and looked out on magnificent Technicolor green lawns that stretched to the concrete edge of the LBJ Freeway. I was burning inside.

I’d just acted like a D.C. street cop. I wondered if Burns would have approved, but it didn’t matter. He’d given me some rope, but I also had made a decision that I wasn’t going to change because I was an FBI agent now. I was in Dallas to bring down a kidnapper; I was here to find out if Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly and others were alive and maybe being held somewhere as slaves. I was back on the Job. I heard a door open behind me and I turned. A heavyset man with graying hair was standing there and he looked angry.