"It's a shame they wasn't both at home when that asshole picked the wrong house to rob," Calhoun said. "Then Prasko wouldn't have had to call to protect all our asses."

"What Prasko did was threaten her life," Phebus said coldly. "He didn't-"

"He told her to keep her mouth shut about what she knew, or thought she knew, about us. What's so wrong about that?"

"Prasko knew Kellog's wife was shacked up with a homicide detective. And he should have known the minute he made a threatening call, she was going to tell her boyfriend, the homicide detective, about it. That was fucking stupid!"

Calhoun looked at him a moment and then shrugged, granting the point.

"Let me worry about protecting our asses," Phebus said. "You stay off the fucking telephone!"

"Watch it," Calhoun said, nodding his head toward the door.

Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan of the Narcotics Unit had entered Allgood's Bar.

He walked directly to their table.

"What do you know good, Tony?" he said to Phebus. "What are you doing in here? Homesick for Narcotics?"

"How are you, Pat?" Phebus said, offering him his hand.

"Say hello to Gladys for me," Dolan said.

"I'll do that."

Dolan turned to Coogan and Calhoun.

"You two are supposed to do the paper before you start bending your elbows," Dolan said.

"Give us a break, Sergeant," Calhoun said.

"Break, my ass. Finish your beer and come across the street."

"Right," Calhoun said.

"See you around, Tony," Calhoun said as he got to his feet.

Sergeant Dolan walked to the door, waited there until Coogan had finished his beer, then led Coogan and Calhoun across Hunting Park Avenue and into the Narcotics Unit.

Special Agent Jack Matthews, who had been sitting in one of the two armchairs in the outer office of SAC Walter Davis, got to his feet when Davis walked in, in the process of taking off his topcoat.

Davis believed that an important key to leadership was to have one's subordinates believe that you were concerned about them, and that a splendid way to do this was, under certain circumstances, to address them by their Christian and/or nicknames.

Yesterday, he could not have told you this nice young man's first name if his life depended on it. He remembered it now, most likely because of his late-afternoon conversation with him vis-fnbsp;-vis the recruitment of Detective Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department.

"Good morning, Jack," Davis said with a smile.

"Good morning, sir."

"You're waiting to see me, Jack?" Davis asked, now just a shade annoyed. He had told Matthews to let him know what happened, but he hadn't really requested a first-thing-in-the-morning report, before he'd even had a chance to have a cup of coffee.

"If you can spare me a few minutes, sir."

"A few, Jack," Davis said, waving at him to indicate he had his permission to follow him into his office.

Davis went behind his desk, took a quick glance at his In basket to see if anything interesting had come in overnight, then glanced up at Matthews.

"Have a seat, Jack," he said. "Tell me, how did it go?"

"Well, sir, Payne doesn't seem to be very interested in joining the Bureau. But…"

"If at first you don't succeed, et cetera. What exactly did he say?"

Matthews smiled uneasily.

"I don't think you want to know, sir," he said.

"Of course I want to know. What exactly did he say, Jack?"

"He said that some of his best friends are FBI agents, but he wouldn't want his sister to marry one."

My God, what an insulting, outrageous thing to say! With obvious racial overtones!

"That remark, Matthews, was in particularly poor taste, wouldn't you say?"

"Sir, the way he said it… sort of took the bite out of it. But…"

"Well, perhaps it's a good thing this attitude of his came out so soon. There is no room in the Bureau for racial prejudice, Matthews, no room for a racist."

"Sir, Payne isn't a racist. I know that."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I know him, sir. And he's very close to a sergeant named Jason Washington…"

"I know Washington. Unless I'm wrong, he's Payne's supervisor."

"Yes, sir, he is. But Payne is also very close to Officer Lewis, who is also black."

"I believe the preferred term is 'African American,' Matthews," Davis said. "And I am personally acquainted with an African American lieutenant named Lewis, who told me his son is also a policeman. Would that, do you think, be the Officer Lewis with whom Payne is so friendly?"

"Yes, sir. Lewis's father is a lieutenant."

"Well, there, under those circumstances, I don't think we can be assured that Detective Payne is color-blind, can we?" Davis said.

Matt, you really pissed the old fart off with that crack.

"Sir, with respect, I cannot agree that Payne is any way a bigot," Matthews said.

Davis glowered at him for a moment.

"Did he offer any explanation for his contempt for the FBI?"

"I don't think he holds us in contempt, sir-"

"That's what it sounds like to me!"

"Sir, that's really why I came to see you first thing."

"What is?"

"Sir, Payne told me he had had an unpleasant encounter with two special agents. Two days ago."

"An 'unpleasant encounter'? What sort of an 'unpleasant encounter'? Who were the agents?"

"Payne told me their names were Leibowitz and Jernigan. "

"I don't have anybody with those names."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"Payne must be mistaken. We don't have agents by those names, and if any of our people were going to be dealing with a Philadelphia police department officer, I would know about it. That's standard operating procedure. "

"Yes, sir."

"Possibly, your friend Payne had this 'unpleasant encounter ' with some other federal officer. A postal inspector, a Secret Service agent."

"Sir, Payne insists he saw FBI credentials."

"What was the nature of this 'unpleasant encounter'? Did he say?"

"Yes, sir. He said the agents were investigating a kidnapping that didn't happen."

"A kidnapping?"

"Yes, sir. Payne said that there was no kidnapping."

"Was there or wasn't there?"

"Payne said the FBI agents believed there was a kidnapping; he knew for sure there was not."

"Do you think your friend Payne was pulling your leg, Matthews? He has a strange sense of humor."

"No, sir. I feel sure he wasn't."

"But there are no agents with those names."

"Not here, sir. I was going to ask for permission to check with the Bureau-"

"Do that right now," Davis ordered, pointing to one of his telephones. "Call the Bureau, tell them you're calling for me, and see if there are agents with those names."

"Yes, sir," Matthews said, and picked up the handset.

"There are several possibilities," Davis went on. "One, that your friend is pulling your leg. Two, that someone is in possession of fraudulent credentials, which is a felony, you know. Three, that these people are legitimate FBI agents of another jurisdiction, operating in our area of responsibility-"

"Sir," Matthews interrupted him. "I checked that with ASAC Williamson. Neither of those names is familiar to him."

Glenn Williamson, a well-dressed man of forty-two, who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair, was the Philadelphia FBI office's assistant special agent in charge for administration. As such, he would be aware not only of the names of every FBI agent assigned to Philadelphia, but of the names of FBI agents assigned to other offices who might be working temporarily in Philadelphia 's area.

"-without checking in with Williamson. I won't have that, Matthews. That's a clear violation of standard operating procedure, having other people's agents running around like loose cannons in your area of responsibility."