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team.”
    â€œI don’t know what this is. My chief told me to report and here I am,” he said.
    She tilted her head, sizing him up. “I take it you’ve had some less-than-satisfactory experiences with the Bureau?”
    â€œMixed,” he answered, adding, “at best.”
    She smiled. “I’d hate to depose you,” she said.
    â€œSo don’t,” he said. “What’s this about?”
    â€œI say again, we—you and I, all the people here—are on the same team, Detective. You are a federal deputy, correct?”
    She was well briefed. “All of our officers who work state or international border counties are deputized,” he said. This had taken place just more than a year ago. Anyone committing a game violation in one state and crossing the border of another state in possession of illegal game was in violation of the Federal Lacey Act. Being deputized as feds gave COs the authority to pursue them. Deputization was also supposed to enhance cooperation with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the federal agency Michigan’s DNR was most likely to interface with. The implication for cooperation with and by the USFS, FBI, BATF, and an alphabet soup of other federal agencies remained a question mark. From experience he knew that major policy farts of this kind often required glacially calibrated clocks to gauge results, by which time the rules would no doubt change again.
    Special Agent Monica reached into a black leather portfolio, pulled out a Temporary FBI ID card on a black lanyard, and set it on the table. “Wear this at all times around here. If you see somebody without one, make them show one to you, or put their face in the dirt—and yell for help. The only leaks out of this outfit will be the ones we choose to make for tactical reasons,” she declared.
    He looked at the identification badge. It was his photo. How did she get it so fast? The chief had left him with the impression that this was a chop-chop deal, but her having his photo suggested something very different, and he was suspicious.
    â€œI’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions,” she said, “but bear with me for a while, and for God’s sake, drink a beer.” She snapped off the cap for him and pushed the bottle closer. “Your father was a game warden,” she said. “He was killed in the line of duty.”
    â€œHe was a game warden who died while he was drunk on duty,” Service said.
    â€œBut the state honored him as a hero,” she countered.
    He nodded. “He liked to stop and schmooze violets,” he said. “The state didn’t talk about that part.”
    â€œViolets?” she said with a puzzled look.
    â€œViolators.”
    She smiled. “That’s what all effective cops do,” she said. “You don’t drink with your . . . violets?” She seemed amused by the term.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    Agent Monica cocked her head slightly. “What did you think of your father?”
    Service stiffened. “I didn’t come here to have my head shrunk.” First the shrinky-dink priest, now her. Jesus .
    â€œI promise not to shrink it,” she said. “But I do want to dig around in there—if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI do mind,” he said.
    â€œIn your place, I would too,” she said sympathetically. “You’ve worked with Wisconsin warden Wayno Ficorelli.”
    Wayno. “Once.”
    â€œYour opinion of him?”
    â€œIs he up for a federal job or something?”
    â€œJust answer the question, okay?” Like most feds, Agent Monica was an adept interviewer, accomplished at deflecting and maintaining control.
    â€œWayno is smart, dedicated, and determined.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “When did you work with him?”
    â€œLast fall.” Time tended to lose meaning for game wardens, and the older he got, the worse the time dislocation