“Grayton, I don’t know, whoever. Like last time. One head case. The Bureau and everyone else are working their butts off, trying to figure out Mr. Max Bridge. But … .”

“Why are you asking, Clarence?”

“Makes it easier, I suppose … . Don’t know. I have lots of time to wonder about lots of things. And then this.” He held up the fax.

“Got one thing,” Dunne said, “and I don’t feel like sharing it with them. They don’t seem to like my input so far … . Maybe I’ll take a drink. Have any Scotch?”

Addis explained the house was dry and went to get a glass of water for Dunne. There wasn’t even ice in the freezer. As Addis cleaned two glasses, Dunne kept talking.

“Got a friend on the local force, a sergeant. Last night, two of his guys answer a call. Someone in an apartment building on New Hampshire hears a guy beating the crap out of a woman in the apartment next door. Cops show up. Bang on the door. The guy opens it. Inside there’s a woman. Messed-up, a little bloody. But not too bad. Crying. Guy’s drunk. Starts blabbering about being a diplomat. And then this other fellow shows up. Turns out the guy’s right. They’re both low-level schmucks at the Moroccan embassy. Cops ask the woman what happened. She keeps saying, she’s all right. Says she just got mugged outside the building, roughed up by some black guys. Happened too fast to identify them. Cops ask her for I.D. She’s got none. The black guys—always black, right?—took her purse. Gives them a name and address. Turns out it’s false. The second Moroccan tries to smooth everything over. The officers aren’t buying this. But she won’t press charges. Then the drunken Moroccan says something like, ‘Hey, I can help you out. That girl in the paper, the one in the hotel room, I saw her.’ But then he starts blabbing about how he’s related to the prime minister. Next he vomits over one of the cops.”

Dunne took the glass of water from Addis.

“Cops got their names. Didn’t bother bringing him in. Diplomatic immunity’s always a pain. And the woman won’t say what really happened. The cops make her as a professional. They insist on seeing her leave, and she gets into a cab. When they go back to the station, they tell my friend what the drunk said. He rips them a new backdoor and sends them back to get more information. Dumb-ass cops. You know it, the Moroccans are gone. And today, when my friend went down to the embassy, they tell him the drunken asshole has so embarrassed his wonderful nation that he was sent home.”

“So,” Addis asked, “should the Bureau chase this guy back to Morocco?”