“I’ve been trying to clear up some gaps”—this word is freighted with innuendo; she knows I know about Fritzy sitting on the investigation—“and I’m hoping you can help me with some things.”

“I already typed up a report for Janus,” I say. “They’ll forward it. Can we do this later?”

“We can wait to discuss the events of last night,” she says. “I’d just like some quick background. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you are uniquely qualified to provide insight on the Rat Burglar.” When I don’t respond immediately, Nunes says, “Ever hear of the Polecat?”

“The what?” I’m not sure why I lie about this. It’s just instinct, and I instantly regret it. It’s not a good way to start a relationship with a person trained in detecting prevarication and guilt.

“How many other Janus pulses have been hit by the Rat Burglar?”

“None.”

“To your knowledge, how many years has the Rat Burglar been active?”

“Several. At least his calling card has only been on record for a few years. There are infinite other jobs he could have pulled without using that signature. After narcotics, the black market in stolen and looted art is the most lucrative in the world. There isn’t exactly a shortage of talent.”

“When has the thief been most active?”

“The last year.”

“Interesting. O.K. Now I’m going to read you some items. You tell me what you know about them. What do you say?”

In this light Nunes has a complexion the color of burned mashed potatoes and pinched, too small eyes, like shoelace holes, that get smaller when she looks at me.

“I’d really rather go home right now. I’ve had a tough couple of days.”

“Hemofex?”

I sigh with resignation. A woman who is so meticulous she carries her umbrella on cloudless days isn’t going to be deterred because I make a turn-key gesture. I tell her what she wants to know. “It’s a kind of cyanogen chloride. A blood agent.”

“Lethal?” she says, her gaze seeming to shift in and out of focus. She has hardly looked me in the eye once. She seems to be addressing my shoulder, then my waist, then my feet. It’s unsettling.

“It’s a schedule one chemical weapon,” I say, as if she just asked me if I enjoy oxygen. When she stares at me I say, as patiently as I can, “Yes. It’s lethal. Extremely.”

“Not to you, though, apparently.”

To this I just shrug. The less anyone knows about my gift, the better.

“And how about Perrelet?”

“Trade name for a commercialized V-series nerve agent. VX, specifically.”

“Lethal?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Triphosgene?”

“A pulmonary agent. Pulmonary edema is induced by even a small quantity, within minutes. Also schedule one.”

“Anything else notable about them?”

The only way Nunes could know this is if she has been looking into my file, either with Po-Mo’s assistance or via a court order. Not good.

“I was hit with all of them, if that’s what you want to hear, yes.”