Not that Hendrix was approaching this unofficial meeting at a Concord coffee shop with any degree of awe. In fact, he was at once curious and ready to be irritated, as he’d heard that Gunther, in a federal task force role, had been traipsing around Hendrix’s state without much respect for local jurisdiction. His team, or whatever it was, had called on NHSP assistance a couple of times, which hardly qualified as a display of good manners.

So Hendrix was intrigued to know why the great man had at last chosen to reach out. Was it a too-little, too-late show of politesse? Or did he have something up his sleeve, specifically for Major Crime?

In fact, Hendrix thought as he pulled open the diner’s door and entered its warm embrace of sweet and comforting odors, that if he were to be completely honest, he could understand an outside investigator avoiding the state police’s bureaucracy. Having spent his entire career in its confines, Hendrix was the first to admit that thin skin and jealousy had not been relegated to the past, much as many struggled to put them there.

An older, kindly-looking man was sitting in a far booth, facing the door, his hands encircling a mug of something hot. Given the midmorning hour, the place was relatively empty, allowing for a quiet meeting.

James approached, his expression neutral. His host smiled gently and half rose in the booth, extending a hand. “James Hendrix? Joe Gunther.”

Hendrix slid in opposite him. “So I heard.”

That having been said, he immediately followed with, “Didn’t mean to be snarky. Sorry,” which was not a word he overemployed.

But Joe gave him a sympathetic look. “No need. I know a few people are probably thinking my small unit has been playing fast and loose. We’re not, but I could see that.”

“It’s not so bad,” James reassured him, slightly embarrassed. “There’re always a few bitch-and-moaners. Part of the job.”

“We do it, too, west of the river,” Joe said. “I was in at the creation of the VBI. Those early days were tough, especially before the state police figured out how to work with us.”

“I heard most of your ranks consist of ex-troopers,” Hendrix said.

“They do,” Joe admitted. “Which I think pissed off the brass even more at first. Now everybody’s settled down, more or less.”

A waitress appeared and asked if James wanted a coffee or anything else. He settled for the drink only, which she produced on the spot before fading away.

He took a sip, settled back more comfortably, and stated, “I doubt this is a social visit.”

Joe liked that. It confirmed what he’d heard about the unusually named James Hendrix, that he was honest, direct, and a solid cop.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Joe told him. “It might end up being a dead end, but I hope not. In the rumors you’ve heard about us over here, did you pick up on a knock-and-talk we’d planned on a guy’s house in Gilsum, named Lemuel Shaw? State police was a part of it.”