“STOP THE CAB.”

“You sure you don’t want me to call the police?”

“I am the police.”

The cabbie didn’t wait to see my badge. He pulled over. I threw some money at him, yanked my gun from my purse, and climbed out. The rain had come back, a downpour with more oomph than my vibrating shower head. The sedan parked behind the cab, and I stalked over, ready to shoot someone.

The driver opened his window.

“It’s raining.”

Were all men this tuned in to the obvious?

“What the hell do you want, Dailey?”

“I’m Special Agent Coursey. That’s Special Agent Dailey.”

Coursey used a head motion, indicating his passenger. They were both dressed identically in gray suits, blue ties, and silver Timexes. Age was tough to determine, since neither of them ever made any sort of facial expression that could cause wrinkles.

One of them, I forget which, once told me that they weren’t related, even though they looked more alike than most twins. I had a fanciful notion that our government grew Feebies in a lab somewhere, using some kind of genetic Jell-O mold.

“What the hell do you guys want?”

Coursey hit a button, and the back door lock snapped open.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I’m on a leave of absence.”

“Is that why you went to the Forensic Science Center?”

When cornered, attack.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around? Like maybe catch some criminals? I hear you guys have a most wanted list with a few names on it. How’s that Bin Laden hunt going?”

They exchanged a glance, possibly communicating using their FBI brain implants, and then Dailey said, “We think we may know where Alexandra Kork is.”

I got in. The car was nice. Leather interior. Heated seats. Much better than my car. Especially since I didn’t have a car anymore. My Chevy Nova, a classic 1985 model, was recently towed to the scrap yard. Unlike those TV commercials where they pay you cash for your used vehicle, I had to pay them to take it away.

I leaned forward.

“Where’s Alex?”

Neither Coursey nor Dailey so much as glanced at my boobs. I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful, or insulted.

“We want some information first,” said Dailey.

“You help us, we help you,” said Coursey.

“Quid pro quo,” said Dailey.

“You guys learned that term from watching Silence of the Lambs.”

Dailey put his arm over the back of his seat and faced me.

“We know you’re looking for her, Lieutenant. We want to help you.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“Are you willing to trade information?”

“What kind of information are you looking for?”

Coursey handed Dailey an 8 ×10 mug shot, and he passed it back to me.

“We’re looking for this man.”

I studied the photo. White. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Mid-thirties.

“What about him?” I asked.

“You arrested him several years ago.”

“I arrest a lot of people.”

They stared at me. I stared back. Feds are masters at staring. But so am I. I didn’t get to the rank of lieutenant by being easily intimidated. I can go days without blinking.

The staring contest continued, and I remembered the bank was going to close soon.

“What did he do?” I finally asked.

“Bank robbery. He tied three road flares together, walked into the drive-through lane, and placed the flares in the vacuum tube container.”

“Live flares?”

“No. Unlit flares. Along with a note saying it was dynamite, and he would set it off unless they gave him two thousand dollars.”

Coursey handed me a photo taken by the bank surveillance camera. The man stood outside the bank window, holding a small black box with an antenna sticking out of the top. He was smiling and waving.

“That’s a remote control car radio,” I said.

“The tellers didn’t know that.”

“They gave him the money?”

“Yes. Then he returned the container and asked for his road flares back.”

I shook my head, amazed. “He told them they were road flares?”

“He did. Then he apologized for deceiving them, and sent them a package of cookies.”

I suppressed a smirk. “Sounds like Public Enemy Number One.”

“Bank robbery is a federal crime, Lieutenant.”

“Did you canvass nearby convenience stores? You might also be able to nail him for trafficking in stolen Oreos.”

I watched Coursey actually write that down. Maybe my government Jell-O mold idea wasn’t as fanciful as I thought.

“So what do you extra-special agents want from me?”

“This guy’s off the grid. No address. No job. Doesn’t pay taxes or Social Security. According to his record, he’s only been arrested once,” said Dailey.

“By you,” said Coursey.

“Like I said, I arrest a lot of people,” said I.

“So you don’t know where he lives?”

“I don’t know where he lives.”

More staring. If they scrutinized me any harder, I might fall asleep.

“Look, if I knew where he lived, we could all drive to his place right now. I’d even spring for the milk to dunk those cookies.”

Coursey and Dailey shared another telepathy glance.

“So where’s Alex?”

“We have reason to believe she’s in Knoxville,” said Coursey.

“ Knoxville,” I repeated.

“ Tennessee,” said Dailey.

“How did you learn this? Witness? Informer?”

“Vicky.”

I almost slapped myself in the forehead. Vicky is the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team Computer.

“Vicky is the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team Computer,” said Coursey.

“We’ve had this conversation before, guys.”

“She compiles information, creates suspect profiles, and predicts future movements.”

Vicky cost the taxpayers sixty-five million dollars, and she couldn’t predict the time an hour from now.

I feng shuied my many negative thoughts and calmly asked, “Why does Vicky think Alex is in Knoxville, Tennessee?”

“She compiled information and-”

“I got that part. What led Vicky to believe this?”

They were silent. I heard a faint, mechanical sound, which may have been the gears in their robotic brain implants failing.

Coursey finally said, “There’s Dollywood.”

I blinked. “Dollywood?”

“It’s only thirty-five miles southeast of Knoxville,” said Dailey.

“You think Alex Kork went to Dollywood?”

More silence.

“Why would she go to Dollywood?” I thought it was a reasonable question.

“Everyone likes Western-themed rides and attractions,” said Coursey.

“And Southern hospitality at affordable family prices,” said Dailey.

I rubbed my eyes. “You rehearsed this. You planned this whole gag, and you’re going to laugh about this later on. Right?”

They exchanged another glance.

“Vicky cost sixty-five million dollars,” Coursey said.

My phone rang. The one Alex gave me.

“Excuse me, guys. I have to take this. Good luck with that cookie robber guy.”

I pulled on the door handle. Naturally, it didn’t open. Federal, state, city, or town-cop cars were all the same.

A second ring.

“You want to let me out?”

“Alexandra Kork has committed felonies in six states,” said Dailey. “So the Bureau is very interested in bringing her to justice.”

The phone rang a third time. I still didn’t pick it up.

“I promise I’ll check Dolly’s cleavage when I’m in Knoxville.”

“If you find her, call us,” said Coursey.

“We mean Alex, not Dolly,” said Dailey.

“If she contacts me, you’ll be the first to know.”

The door unlocked. I walked briskly away from the car, the rain a faucet on my head.

“It’s Jack,” I said into the phone.

No answer. I missed the call. I couldn’t call back, because the call would just forward to this number, giving me a busy signal. Shit. Then the phone beeped, telling me I had a text message. I accessed it.

THIS IS LANCE. HE’S A COP.