She laughed. “I’ve never heard that pickup line used before.”

They drove to Century and Sepulveda and waited at a respectable distance. The joint already swarmed with FBI. They could only enjoy the show through binoculars and an occasional remark on the radio. Both of them were annoyed they could not go inside and take the guys down. But she was still high as a kite. She prayed Buddy was all right.

Their hick must have gotten lost. They got there before him. Eventually he showed. He was inside all of five minutes when he was approached by a tree trunk that weighed three hundred pounds. From what they could make out over the radio, the guy looked mean. He had beady eyes, was bull-necked, and even had bad breath.

Fortunately, he was as dumb as his help. His pick-up plan was no plan at all. He just took the briefcase from the hick, and Ms. Bane gave the word. Half the agents in the L.A. office moved in at once. Charlie started the car and raced toward the Denny’s. As they got out of the car, Vicki had both guys facedown in the parking lot and cuffed. She read them their rights, but kept her gun to the fat guy’s head.

“Where’s Buddy?” she asked. Vicki was all skin and bones, a scarecrow on speed; intense eyes, sharp nails, black belt in karate. When the guy did not answer, Vicki cocked her pistol and shoved it in the guy’s ear, added in a deadly tone, “I’ve been on a diet all my life. You have no idea how much I hate fat people. Where’s the boy?”

It should not have worked. Nothing they had done that day should have worked. But the walrus sang like a bird. Buddy was at his apartment in Orange County watching TV and eating ice cream. The fat guy would show them the way if his cooperation could get him a deal with the D.A. Sure, Vicki promised him a deal. When the hick from the McDonald’s got up he stared at Charlie and Kelly and asked what they were doing there.

Buddy was back home and safe within ninety minutes.

Vicki thanked Charlie and Kelly for a job well done. However, the boy’s parents did not call. Casually brushing off the slight, Charlie said, “Assholes cannot help being assholes. It is their nature.”

Kelly, Charlie, and several other agents from the L.A. office went to celebrate at the Beverly Hills Hotel bar: margaritas, nuts, and plenty of drunken company. By the time Kelly remembered her family, it was after ten. Charlie offered to give her a ride home—he drove significantly more carefully when he was over the legal limit.

When she walked into the house she knew she was in trouble.