says. “Ask him who it belongs to!”

I say, “Right now all I’ve got is the belief it belongs to a woman.”

“Crap!” Larry says.

In the background I hear C.H. and Curly laughing heartily, which means they’re probably dancing a jig. It’s absurd, I know, but when you’re dealing with the world’s greatest researchers, that’s what you have to do: deal with them.

“Call the hotel,” I say. “Find out who checked in nine hours ago. There won’t be many at that time of the morning, and probably just our lady. I want her name and room number.”

“They won’t want to give us that information.”

“Use your imagination.”

“Can we threaten the front desk lady with bodily harm? Like in the movies?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You won’t scare her. No offense, but you’re elves.”

“One elf. At most.”

“Nevertheless, your voices aren’t threatening. I know you wish they were, but they’re not. On the other hand, you’re government elves. Threaten her with a tax audit. After you get her name and room number, call one of our Memphis agents and have him stand outside her hotel room door. No one leaves the room till I say so.”

“Mr. Creed?”

“What?”

“We don’t have any agents in Memphis.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t recruited any.”

“We’ve got drivers there, right?”

“Several.”

“Good. Get the biggest, toughest, most intimidating guy we’ve got, and tell him to get there immediately. Tell him she can’t leave the room under any circumstances. When everything’s in place, give me a call.”

“What if she’s already gone?”

“Keep an eye on the tracer. If the phone moves, I want the driver close behind.”

7.

CALLIE, JOE, AND I make our way to the roadblock, south of the blast site, where 20 men have gathered around the sheriff. I don’t know if they came to protect him, or the crime scene, or if they just wanted to be here when the FBI taskforce shows up. But whatever their reason, it’s been forgotten, now that Callie’s in their presence.

All eyes are on her like maggots on a corpse.

I flash my badge at Sheriff Cox, but he says that’s not good enough. It could be a fake. I won’t argue the point, because in fact, it is a fake. Sensory Resources doesn’t issue badges. But we do have valid credentials, and Callie produces them. Sheriff Cox pretends to study them carefully before answering my questions, but what he’s really studying is the lower half of Callie’s anatomy.

Now that we’re dating, and planning to live together, I need to ask her to stop wearing camel-toe jean tights, or leggings, or whatever the hell they’re called.

When he’s done ogling her, I ask, “Was a woman staying at Jack’s house?”

“How’d you know?”

“We’ve got a top-flight research team.”

“You’ve seen her picture?”

“No.”

“She’s damn good-looking.” He gives Callie another quick mental undressing and adds, “Not compared to you, Miss Carpenter.”

Callie shows him a smile so radiant it catches him off-guard.