“I know, but I like playing with you. Know anything about female remains found in Jackson County, Indiana, either yesterday or the day before?”

“I do not.”

“But I bet you could impress a girl if you wanted to.”

“You know I could. Solo con mis manos.”

“We’re two thousand miles apart. What can you do with that big brain of yours?”

“Give me five minutes.”

The connection ended. Caitlin caught the look of admiration on Lakshmi’s face.

“That’s right,” Caitlin said. “I know an FBI agent.”

“Sounds like you know him rather well.”

Caitlin smiled. She wasn’t exactly a bombshell, but she’d attracted a fine range of intelligent men like Jim in her past. Had she used them for information, sex, and cocktails? Damned straight.

“Talk to me about the local law enforcement,” she said. “I bet you know the name of every official who’s been involved in Angela’s disappearance.”

“I do. It started with Bloomington PD. Detective—”

Caitlin put her hand up again. “Not yet. My point is, there are multiple agencies involved, right?”

“Right.”

“Each with their own territory. Why would they tell us anything?”

Lakshmi’s eyebrows went up. “Because we’re the press?”

Caitlin lowered her window. High sixties out, a handful of clouds, nothing dark. “Not at this stage we’re not. We’re an annoyance they don’t have time to deal with. Do the people in Angela’s case like you?”

“Like me?”

“How much do you call them, Lakshmi? How often?”

The girl shifted in her seat. “Probably too much.”

“Who’s the lead detective, which agency?”

“His name is Jerry Greenwood, Bloomington PD.”

“Got the number?”

Lakshmi got out her phone, tapped on the saved contact, started the dial.

“Whoa—we’re not using your phone.”

Caitlin dialed the digits into her own phone, moved the call to speaker, got an automated directory.

“You’ve reached the Bloomington Police Department—”

Lakshmi leaned over. “He’s twelve-fifty-five, but I get his voicemail every time.”

Caitlin pushed zero and put a little country in her voice for the female receptionist. “Sorry to bother you, but this is Cheryl over at Bloomington Tire. I’ve got a cell phone here that I think belongs to Jerry Greenwood. Is he in the office?”

“Hold, please.”

A ringtone replaced the operator’s voice until a male answered, “Greenwood.”

Caitlin hung up.

Lakshmi’s jaw dropped. “Did you just prank-call a detective?”

“Start the car. They didn’t find Angela Chapman.”

“You’re guessing.”

“What have we learned?”

The girl gave a little laugh. “That he dodges my calls.”

“More than that. One, he’s on the clock, and two, he’s at his desk. You’re an aspiring journalist: How do I know he’s at his desk?”