It was a wonderful view, almost a postcard, as if to say, “Look —this is Miami: we weren't kidding.” Very few of the Bureau's employees seemed to be enjoying the view today, however. The office resembled a giant oak-lined bee's nest that somebody had poked with a stick. There could not have been more than a handful of employees, but they were flitting in and out of doors and up and down the hallway so rapidly it looked like there were hundreds of them in constant motion, like crazed particles in a whirring jar of oil.

Deborah stood at the receptionist's desk for two full minutes —a lifetime as far as her sense of patience was concerned —before a large woman paused and stared at her.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded.

Debs immediately flashed her badge. “I'm Sergeant Morgan. From the police?”

“Oh my God” the woman said. “I'll get Jo Anne” and disappeared through a door on the right. Deborah looked at me as if it was my fault and said, “Jesus” and then the door slammed open again and a small woman with a long nose and a short haircut came barreling out.

“Police?” she said with real outrage in her voice. She looked beyond us and then back to Deborah. “You're the police? What, the pin-up police?”

Of course, Deborah was used to having people challenge her, but usually not quite so brutally. She actually blushed a little before she held up her badge again and said, “Sergeant Morgan. Do you have some information for us?”

“This is no time for being politically correct” the woman said. I need Dirty Harry, and they send Legally Blonde.” Deborah's eyes narrowed and the pretty red flush left her cheeks.

“If you'd like, I can come back with a subpoena” she said. “And possibly a warrant for obstructing an investigation.” The woman just stared. Then there was a yell from the back room and something large fell over and broke. She jumped a little, then said, “My God. All right, come on” and she vanished through the door again. Deborah breathed out hard, showing a few teeth, and then we followed.

The small woman was already disappearing through a door at the end of the hall, and by the time we caught up with her she was settling into a swivel chair at a conference table. “Sit down” she said, waving at the other chairs with a large black remote control. Without waiting to see if we sat, she pointed the remote at a big flat-screen TV and said, “This came yesterday, but we didn't get around to looking at it until this morning.”

She glanced up at us. “We called right away” she said, perhaps still trembling with fear from Deborah's threat of a warrant. If so, she was controlling her trembles remarkably well.

“What is it?” Deborah said, sliding into a chair. I sat in one next to her as the woman said, “The DVD. Watch.” The TV blinked into life, went through a few wonderfully informative screens asking us to wait or select, and then blurted into life with a high-pitched scream. Beside me, Deborah jumped involuntarily.