“Three words,” Bellow said.

“Go home, Yankee?” I said.

“Senator Gerald Redlick.” He waited for me to comment. In vain. “Senator Gerald Redlick, owner, CEO, and fifty-one percent shareholder of the Redlick Group.”

“That’s more than three words. Didn’t he divest, or place his businesses in a blind trust, or whatever politicians are supposed to do while holding public office?”

“Yes. Very well. Let’s try two words and a sentence. Badja Adeyemi. A friend of a friend heard it from a little bird that Badja Adeyemi, disgraced former cop who kisses Senator Gerald Redlick’s ass and is currently under federal indictment, put you on retainer to dig up skeletons. Corporate skeletons.”

I nodded. “Here’s a sentence for you: Badja Adeyemi is a client who’s paying me an obscene fee to stumble around with my hands in my pockets and ask people about the weather and if some kid they knew years ago, who offed himself in dramatic fashion, was as squeaky clean as he seems on paper. Spoiler alert—so far, the verdict is leaning toward yes, it was a suicide or an accident, and yes, he was a clean, super-chill dude whose mother loved him to pieces.”

Bellow pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture I was positive he’d developed in the company of wet-behind-the-ears agents and recalcitrant grandchildren.

“He banged on my door at four-thirty this morning,” Lionel said from behind his hands. “I was in bed for half an hour.”

“You should’ve warned me,” I said.

“We wanted it to be a surprise,” Bellow said.

“Are you here to cajole me into dropping the case?”

“And interrupt early Christmas vacation to come talk to a brick wall? Nah.”

“FBI dudes get Christmas vacation?” Lionel said.

“The good ones do,” Bellow said. “SDNY scuttlebutt has it that Senator Redlick’s office is anxious that Adeyemi got rolled up. Nobody in Redlick’s camp wants to see Adeyemi pressured. The senator’s corporation is a safety net for if and when he rolls snake eyes politically. Your poking into its past dealings could be viewed as a threat.”

“Can’t a guy poke around the tiniest bit without everybody coming unglued? Jeez.”

They both chuckled.

“If not to hassle me, why are you here?” I said.

“Because,” Bellow said, “my antenna received a signal that you’re stepping into trouble. The antenna doesn’t lie.”

“Your antenna? Meg’s got one of those.”

“G-man’s sixth sense, or whatever. Years of experience.”

“Let me get this straight. Your, uh, antenna, quivered and you hopped a plane, rousted Lionel, and tore ass to this scenic rendezvous.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“I hope the orange juice is freshly squeezed.”

Lionel slipped on a set of tinted shooting glasses. He gave Bellow a sidelong glance.

“Why are you schlepping around in the field? Shouldn’t you be heading a department or some shit?”

“Fraternizing with us doesn’t help his cause,” I said.

“My troubles are at an end,” Bellow said. “Mandatory retirement this summer. A plaque, a pension, a good night’s sleep.”

“Oh, boy,” Lionel said.