“No choice, the directive came from on up.”

When Milo didn’t respond, she said, “Like it’s different with you?”

“I’m sensing a theme here, Gayle. Everyone does it as a defense.”

“What do you want from me?” said Lindstrom. “Flash back to your Hollywood D all roofied up with her legs spread and guess what, you won’t find a trace of those dirty pictures anywhere on the Web. Any written record of the operation, period. What comes from on top filters down to the peons. Our job is to clean up messes.”

“Fine,” said Milo. “Kafka’s God and we’re all cockroaches. But even bugs know how to be social. Why did your bosses want to obstruct me?”

“They wanted to make sure everything was squared up before we interfaced.”

“As in cleaning Doreen’s file of anything useful so as not to look stupid?”

“As in getting my own facts straight. As in a sudden trip to Seattle yesterday morning in a coach seat next to a snoring fat guy.”

“If I hadn’t bugged Hal, would we be sitting here, Gayle?”

“I can’t answer theoretical questions,” said Lindstrom. “Point is, I’m here and I told you what I know about Doreen. If it helps you close her out, I’ll celebrate along with you. Because one of my assignments is to get her the hell off my desk.”

“Then write a bullshit report. I’m a cockroach enabler.”

“First enable some more. As in telling me what you can about Doreen’s murder.”

“Doreen and Backer were enjoying sexual congress in a big house and got surprised in the act.”

“Ouch,” said Lindstrom. “Mode?”

“He was shot once in the head, probably a .22, she was strangled.”

“Forensics?

“His and her prints in expected places, no one else’s, nothing at Backer’s crib. No crib at all for Doreen, because some unnamed government agency helped her go bye-bye and let her stay underground even after she screwed them. Why, once you realized she’d conned you, didn’t you put her factoids back in place?”

“It’s not done that way.”

“She was an embarrassment, so no sense calling attention to her before the next begging session at Congress.”

“Whatever,” said Lindstrom. “I really wish you’d stop bitching, because I didn’t cause any of this. All I’m after is enough data to write her damn epitaph. What else do you have?”

“Nada.”

She toed her bag closer. “I did some checking and the owner of the property might be of interest.”

“Really,” said Milo. Grinning, his hands had curled into massive flesh-mitts, pink and glossy and twitching. Like a pair of Christmas hams revivified by some mad scientist.

Gayle Lindstrom watched them, fascinated.

Milo stood. “Special Agent Lindstrom, I believe we’re through here.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. “What’s with you?”