Miles took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Lieutenant, you’re interfering with an FBI investigation.”

“Oh? Well, I’m terribly sorry. Did it ever occur to you that you might be interfering with my investigation?”

“I think a federal investigation takes precedence.”

“That’s what you guys always think,” Dino said. “You never think that something the NYPD is investigating might be as important as what the FBI is investigating.”

“That’s not true,” Miles insisted.

“They’re not going to tell us anything, are they?” Dino asked.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Then why should we tell them anything?”

“I can’t think of a good reason,” Stone said.

“This is obstruction,” Miles said indignantly. “You obviously know something about this perpetrator.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dino replied.

“Neither did I,” Stone said.

“Look, Lieutenant, I could take this to your superior,” Miles said.

“Oh, my captain would love that,” Dino said. “Assuming you could even get him on the phone, he’d love you wasting his time about some dime-a-dozen bank job. He’d really call me in on the carpet about that.”

“How about this, Agent Miles,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just tell us why the checking of this guy’s prints would raise a flag on the FBI’s computer system? It can’t be just this bank robbery.”

“If I told you that . . .” Miles stopped and thought better. “I can’t tell you that,” he said.

“Agent Miles,” Dino said, “I’m trying hard to see some reason why I should help out the FBI, which wouldn’t cross the street to help me out on an investigation.”

Miles produced his card. “Here’s my number,” he said, handing the card to Dino. “I’ll owe you one. A big one. Anytime you need a favor from the Bureau, you can call me.”

Dino took the card. “How about you, Agent Nevins? Are you going to owe me one, too?”

Nevins produced a card and handed it over. “Yes, yes, I am.”

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” Dino said. “Stone, tell the agents what you know about this guy.”

“His name—or at least, one of his names—is William Charles Danforth, of a P Street address in Washington, D.C., a town with which you are no doubt familiar. Some years ago his name was Paul Manning, and he was a well-known author.”

“Have you ever seen this man?” Miles asked.

“Yes, a couple of days ago.”

“Can you give me a description?”

“Late forties, six-three or -four, two hundred pounds, dark hair going gray.”

“Facial characteristics?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“But you say you saw him a couple of days ago.”

“That’s right, but he had a big bandage right in the middle of his face. I had the distinct impression that he didn’t want me to know what he looked like. Maybe he was afraid I might be talking to the FBI.”