“The more I learn about this project of yours—or the case it’s based on—the fuzzier it gets. I’m hungry for a little clarity.”

“Clarity? You think you’re going to get that from him?”

“Maybe not directly, but he seems to be a player in our little drama, and I don’t really know who the hell he is. That makes me uncomfortable.”

“I told you everything I know about him.” She sounded hurt, defensive.

“I’m sure you did.”

“Then why—”

“If you want my help, Kim, you need to give me some room.”

She hesitated. “Okay … I guess. Be careful. He’s … weird.”

“Guys with more than one last name often are.”

He ended the call. The phone rang as he was putting it in his pocket. The ID said it was J. Hardwick.

“Hello, Jack, thanks for getting back.”

“I’m just a humble public servant, Sherlock. What can I do for the famous detective today?”

“I’m not sure. What kind of Good Shepherd file stuff can you lay your hands on?”

“Oh, I see.” His voice had the arch tone Gurney hated.

“See what?”

“I sense that some of Sherlock’s retired brain cells are coming back to life.”

Gurney ignored this. “So what do you have access to?”

Hardwick cleared his throat with stomach-turning thoroughness. “Original incident reports, victim ID and background data, photographs of large-caliber bullet damage to faces and skulls—Speaking of which, a colorful anecdote comes to mind. One of the victims, a fancy real-estate lady, lost major portions of her jaw and head to that Desert Eagle cannonball. Young fella on the evidence team, combing the crime scene, made a discovery he’ll never forget. A dime-size piece of the lady’s earlobe was hanging on the branch of a roadside sumac bush, with her big diamond-stud earring still in it. Can you picture it, ace? That’s the kind of thing tends to stick in the memory.” He paused for a moment, as if to permit full appreciation of the image. “So anyway, we got lots of details like that, plus ME findings, evidence-team reports, lab reports up the ass, investigative reports, FBI Behavioral Unit’s profile of the shooter, yadda, yadda, yadda, tons of other shit—some accessible, some not. What are you looking for?”

“How about whatever you can send me without too much trouble?”

Hardwick responded with his sandpaper laugh. “Everything the FBI is involved in is potential trouble. Pack of arrogant, political, control-freak assholes.” He paused. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll send you a couple of things right away, more later. Keep checking your e-mail.” Hardwick was always most obliging when regulations were likely to be broken and sensitive toes stepped on.

“By the way,” said Gurney, “I just came from a meeting with Mr. Clinter.”

The Hardwick laugh erupted again, louder. “Maxie made an impression on you?”

“You ever seen that place of his?”