A taxi dropped Mia and Sherlock off in front of Cheesehead Coffee Shop with its signature bright green-and-gold-striped awning, the only place downtown with nonfat cheddar cheese Danish, at least according to the owner, Quillie Rodgers, a longtime fan of the Green Bay Packers and a Cheesehead every Sunday during football season.

Milo Burns was already pacing outside the coffee shop when Mia and Sherlock spilled out of the taxi. He looked from Mia to Sherlock. “Good to see you again, Agent Sherlock. Let me say again, you gave us a great interview. It’ll appear in the Sunday Life section. Millie Jones is still dancing around the newsroom. Pain in the butt. Now, what are you doing with Agent Sherlock, Briscoe? I didn’t even know you knew each other. Let’s get inside before we freeze our parts off.”

There were only a few customers midmorning. Quillie herself showed them to a back booth and Sherlock eased Mia out of her coat. When the three of them were seated, coffee and tea ordered, Milo said, “Agent Sherlock, why are you with Briscoe here?” He gave Mia the stink eye. “She never said a word about knowing you.”

“We’ve only just met. It’s a friends-of-a-friend deal.”

Milo tapped his big blunt fingers on the tabletop. “All right, Briscoe, I’m here. You didn’t tell me a thing, insisted on talking here at Cheesehead’s. Since you’re with my reporter and you’re here with an FBI bigwig, I’d have to be an idiot not to figure something big is going on. That, and sorry, Briscoe, but you look like crap on a pancake.”

Mia sighed. “Disgusting visual even if true.”

Sherlock said, “It’s true. I did meet Mia through a friend. We’re here because Mia says she trusts you implicitly, Mr. Burns.”

“Just Milo,” he said. He looked at Mia, said slowly, “Talk to me, Briscoe, and don’t leave anything out.” He cocked a dark eyebrow at Mia. “Implicitly?”

“Saying it’s big doesn’t start to cover it, Milo. I asked you here to Cheesehead’s because there’s no way I could simply waltz into the newsroom with Agent Sherlock and pretend to everyone nothing’s happened. Look at me, I’m a walking bruise. Yes, Milo, I trust you, or it would be time to hang it up. I’m your reporter, and you should know what I’ve been doing. You’re expecting five thousand words from me on Harrington’s campaign for this weekend, but I’m working on something else, maybe the Guardian’s biggest exclusive since you started there.”

Milo sat back against the cushioned booth seat, looked from Sherlock to Mia and back again. “Still waiting, Briscoe.”