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on.”
    “Fuck no I didn’t.” Delivered essentially as one word.
    Nance Laurel took in the exchange with a bewildered look. Of all the things she wasn’t, a banterer would be high on the list.
    Or maybe she was just angry that Sachs had overridden her and called the FBI agent.
    Sachs continued, “And a prosecutor, ADA Nance Laurel.”
    “Well, this is a special day. Hey there, Counselor Laurel. Good job with that Longshoremen’s convic. That was you, right?”
    Pause. “Yes, Agent Dellray.”
    “Never, never, never thought you’d pull that one off. You know the collar, Lincoln? The Joey Barone case, Southern District? We got some fed charges on that boy but the jury went for wrist slaps. Counselor Laurel, other hand, ran downfield in state court and bought that boy twenty years min. I heard the U.S. attorney put a pictura you up in his office…on a dartboard.”
    “I don’t know about that” was her stiff response. “I was pleased with the outcome.”
    “So, pro -ceed.”
    Sachs said, “Fred, we’ve got a situation. A sensitive one.”
    “Well, I gotta say the tone of your voice sounds so perplexingly intriguing, don’t stop now.”
    Rhyme saw a brief smile on Sachs’s face. Fred Dellray was one of the bureau’s best agents, a renowned runner of confidential informants and a family man and father…and amateur philosopher. But his years as an undercover agent on the street had given him a unique speaking style, as bizarre as his fashion choices.
    “The perp’s your boss, the federal government.”
    A pause. “Hm.”
    Sachs glanced at Laurel, who debated a moment and then took over, reiterating the facts they knew so far about the Moreno killing.
    Fred Dellray’s waiting state was calm and confident but Rhyme detected unusual concern now. “NIOS? They’re not really us us. They’re in their own dimension. And I don’t necessarily mean that in a good way.”
    He didn’t elaborate, though Rhyme wasn’t sure he needed to.
    “I’ll check out a few things now. Hold on.” The sound of typing flew from the speaker like nutshells on a tabletop.
    “Agent Dellray,” Laurel began.
    “Call me Fred. An’ don’tcha fret. I’m as encrypted as can be.”
    A blink. “Thank you.”
    “Okay, just looking at our files here, our files…” A lengthy pause. “Robert Moreno, aka Roberto. Sure, here’s some notes on APDR, American Petroleum Drilling and Refining…Looks like our Miami office was scrambled on a potential terrorist incident but it turned out to be a big false a-larm. You want what I got here on Moreno?”
    “Please, Fred. Go ahead.” Sachs sat at a computer and started a file.
    “Hokay, our boy left the country over twenty years ago and only comes back once a year or so. Well, came back. Let’s see…Watchlisted but never in any active-risk books. He was mostly all talk—so we didn’t pri-oritize him. Hobnobbed with al-Qaeda some and Shining Path, folk like that, but never actually shouted out for an attack.” The agent was whispering to himself. Then he said, “Note here says that the official word is some cartels might’ve been behind the shooting. But that couldn’t be verified…Ah, here’s this.”
    A pause.
    “Fred, you there?” Rhyme asked impatiently.
    “Hm.”
    Rhyme sighed.
    Then Dellray said, “This could be helpful. Report from State. Moreno was here. New Yawk City. Arrived April thirty, late. Then left May second.”
    Lon Sellitto asked, “Anything specific about what he did here, where he went?”
    “Nup. That’s gotta be your job, friends. Now, I’ll keep on it from my end. Make some calls down to my folks in the Caribbean and South America. Oh, I got a picture. Want it?”
    “No,” Laurel said abruptly. “We need to minimize any communication from your office. I’d prefer phone calls to me or Detectives Sellitto and Sachs or Lincoln Rhyme. Discretion is—”
    “The better part of valor,” Dellray intoned cryptically. “Not a single problem in the