“Did I say anything bad? Did I even cut you with the ‘first of many’ line that’s right there on the tip of my tongue? No, I didn’t. I’m being good—for me. But since we’re talking, you can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Want a cold beer?” I asked, and unlocked the front door of the house. “Where’s your bride tonight?”

Sampson followed me inside and we got a couple of Heinekens each; we took them out to the sunporch. I sat on the piano bench and John plopped down in the rocker, which strained under his weight. John is my best friend in the world and has been since we were ten years old. We were homicide detectives, and partners, until I went over to the FBI. He’s still a little pissed at me for that.

“Billie’s just fine. She’s working the late shift at St. Anthony’s tonight and tomorrow. We’re doing good.” He drained about half of his beer in a gulp. “No complaints, partner. Far from it. You’re looking at a happy camper.”

I had to laugh. “You seem surprised.”

Sampson laughed too. “Guess I didn’t think I was the marrying kind. Now all I want to do is hang with Billie most of the time. She makes me laugh, and she even gets my jokes. How about you and Jamilla? She good? And how is the new job? How’s it feel to be a Feebie down at Club Fed?”

“I was just going to call Jam,” I told him. Sampson had met Jamilla, liked her, and knew our situation. Jam was a homicide detective too, so she understood what the life was like. I really enjoyed being with her. Unfortunately, she lived in San Francisco—and she loved it out there.

“She’s on another murder case. They kill people in San Francisco too. Life in the Bureau is good so far.” I popped open the second of my beers. “I need to get used to the Bureau-crats, though.”

“Uh-oh,” Sampson said. Then he grinned wickedly. “Crack in the walls already? The Bureau-crats. Authority problems? So why you working so late? Aren’t you still in orientation, whatever they call it?”

I told Sampson about the kidnapping of Elizabeth Connolly—the condensed version—but then we moved back to more pleasant subjects. Billie and Jamilla, the allure of romance, the latest George Pelecanos novel, a detective friend of ours who was dating his partner and didn’t think anybody was onto them. But we all knew. It was like it always was when Sampson and I got together. I missed working with him. Which led to the next thought: I needed to figure out some way to get him into the FBI.

The big man cleared his throat. “Something else I wanted to tell you, talk to you about. Real reason I came over tonight,” he said.