“First you say you’ve told me everything, then you toss in your own little morsel to spice up the bullshit. Unlike the Bureau, I don’t have years to put up with gamers.”

Lindstrom’s jaw jutted. “I never used the word everything.”

“Well, that sure clarifies it,” he said, heading for the door.

Gayle Lindstrom said, “I am not gaming you. I didn’t say anything in the beginning because I assumed you knew about the owner. After you didn’t say anything, I thought you didn’t so I told you, okay?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think I had to spoon-feed you basic—”

“Who owns the property, Gayle?”

“You really don’t know?”

Milo smiled.

“C’mon,” said Lindstrom. “Just like you, I’m a salaried employee far from the top of the food chain. You want to keep picking at me, I can’t stop you, but it won’t close your double homicide. You want me to go first, fine? Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy.”

Milo sat back down. “More coffee, Gayle? We’re nothing if not hospitable.”

Lindstrom gaped. “Not that it matters, but I only learned about him right before I came over here. You don’t consider him a suspect. Not directly, I mean. He’s back in Sranil.”

Milo said, “He’s alleged to have killed another girl.”

Lindstrom sat up. “Who, where, when?”

“Don’t know, don’t know, around two years ago. It’s still at the rumor level, a foreign national, maybe a party girl, maybe Swedish.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Someone who heard a rumor.”

“Who?”

Milo shook his head. “We’ve got secrecy issues, too. For all I know, it’s baloney but the timing’s right: just when construction stopped on Teddy’s shack. And he rabbited back home right after.”

“Then Doreen ends up there.” Lindstrom shook her head. “I’m not seeing any obvious link.”

“Anything related to Sranil ever come up in Doreen’s stories?”

“Nope. And that I can be sure of because soon as I found out about Teddy owning the property, I re-read every damn word in her file.”

“But she did talk about foreign terrorists confederating with local eco-nuts.”

“It never came to anything, plus she never mentioned anything about Asians or Swedes or Ugandans or Lithuanians.”

“Just Ahmed,” said Milo.

“Quote unquote ‘al-Qaeda types.’”

“Sranil’s Muslim, Gayle. And the sultan’s got two groups of extremists itching to cut his head off and get control of all his oil. One of them’s fundamentalist.”

“Interesting,” said Lindstrom. “You’re really thinking this could be political?”

“God, I hope not. Doreen ever travel abroad?”

“Never even had a passport.”

“Same question, Gayle.”

“I just told you—oh. No, Lieutenant Sturgis, as far as my peon status can carry me, I’m unaware of the Bureau or anyone else furnishing her funny travel papers.”

Milo said, “So someone upstairs could’ve granted it.”