Jack called Quinn back. Quinn and Felix had already planned to be there—not that Jack had been about to tell me that before we made up our own minds. As he slid into the car, I stared out the window. After a few minutes of his driving and my window gazing, he said, “You okay?”

“Just thinking of something and feeling stupid.”

“’Bout what?”

“Quinn.” When he didn’t answer, I glanced his way. “When you told me he was a cop, I figured you meant ‘cop,’ like me—like I was. Street cop. Maybe detective, but definitely local or state. But now he tells us about this tip-off. A beat cop gets the drop on an unpublicized tip-off to the FBI? Right.” I shook my head. “Quinn’s a Fed, isn’t he?”

“FBI?” He shrugged and started to say something that I knew from his expression would be, if not a complete disavowal, at least suitably neutral.

“FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, or whatever other acronyms they have. You know what I mean. Federal level.”

“That’s a problem?”

I twisted in my seat. “Yes, it’s a problem. You tell me he’s a cop, and I figure he’s from some little force in Podunk, Maine. That I’m comfortable with. But a federal agent?” I shook my head. “Yes, I know, federal, state, local, he’s still a cop, so you didn’t lie, but you knew what conclusion I’d draw, and you let me draw it.”

“He’s clean.”

“Says who? Says you? A federal agent has federal jurisdiction. Federal contacts. Access to federal databases. I’m not comfortable—”

“Nadia? His story’s solid. He’s not a plant. Not a threat, either. He flips? I flip harder.”

I remembered what Quinn had said earlier, that Jack had more on him than vice versa.

“Not a threat,” Jack repeated. “He was? Wouldn’t have let you meet him.”

I leaned back in my seat. “I know. It’s just…federal makes me nervous. It’s a cop thing. On the streets, you don’t deal with them that much. Every now and then, we’d have the horsemen ride in, scoop up a case—”

“Horsemen?”

“RCMP.” When his look didn’t change, I said, “Mounties. Mounted police.”

“They still ride horses?”

“Only in parades…and tourist photo ops.”

“The red uniforms?”

“It’s suits these days. Disney owns the uniform copyright anyway. I once asked a Mountie whether his dress uniform tag said ‘Property of Walt Disney.’ He wouldn’t tell me, but he did offer to let me take his off and check for myself.”

Jack shook his head. He pulled into the slow lane, and set his cruise control two miles over the speed limit. Then he looked at me. “About Quinn. Makes you nervous? Best thing you can do? Keep your distance.”

“You mean stick to business. No socializing, no chatting, no jogging together…”

“Right.”