“Little bones,” said Riker.

“Baby bones,” said the mechanic. “That’s what the rookie called them.”

Mallory kept her seat by the window, preferring to watch the action from a comfortable distance. Outside in the parking lot, the state trooper was facing off against a federal agent, the only man in a suit and tie. The pilot of the helicopter had wisely remained inside the aircraft. A small gallery of FBI civilian employees watched from the sidelines; these four men wore jackets identifying them as crime-scene technicians.

The fed’s thinning red hair was cut short, and his scalp was even more sunburned than his face-lots of hours spent out of doors on this case. His arms were waving, sometimes pointing to the cruiser, and no doubt telling the young officer to get his ass on the road. But T r ooper Hoffman was making a stand. He had been through a hard morning of humiliation and degradation-compliments of herself-all for that damned green Ford, and he was not going to give it away to the FBI.

The trooper dropped his guard and turned to look at his own vehicle. The cruiser’s radio was calling him, and he ran toward it. Pulling the door open, he reached inside to press a receiver to one ear so he could listen to his communication in private.

No need for Mallory to hear the spoken words.

The trooper banged one fist on the roof of the car, and that said it all. The war between cops and feds had been lost in Chicago. Hoffman put on a stoic face, carried his garbage bag to the FBI agent and attempted a graceful surrender of evidence.

The redheaded fed, in Mallory’s o pinion, was not so graceful. He was going off on the younger man, and this was not normal FBI behavior, not after winning a major battle over turf rights.These two should be kissing and making up by now. She left the comfort of the booth to stand in the open doorway of the diner and only drew the attention of the four technicians.

The federal agent was facing the trooper and shaking his head at the sorry garbage bag that was being held out to him. It continued to hang in the air between them.

“Thank you,” said the frustrated FBI man. “Thank you for this worthless bag of crap that wouldn’t s t and up as court evidence if it had the killer’s name and address on every item. Did you sleep through all your classes on crime-scene protocols?”

Mallory came up behind the agent so quietly that she made the man jump when she spoke to the trooper. “Never mind him,” she said, indicating the FBI man with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Give your bag to the crime-scene techs.” Still ignoring the agent, she turned to the oldest technician, the one she had picked for the senior man on the forensics team. Pointing to the bag, she said, “That’s what the helicopter would’ve blown away-if the trooper hadn’t policed the area before you landed.” When the senior tech smiled, she said, “I thought you’d appreciate that. Yo u didn’t w ant to land in the parking lot, did you?” And now she turned to the FBI agent. “That would’ve been your idea, right?”

The fed had no response, nor did he find it necessary to ask for Mallory’s identification. Her denim jacket had been discarded on the steps of the diner, and he was looking at the cannon parked in her shoulder holster. The gun and a state trooper who was obviously under her command- this was all that was needed to make her the highest-ranking police officer on the scene.

Tr ooper Hoffman quietly made his transfer of evidence, signing the paperwork and accepting the receipt for his garbage bag. Then it was a surprise to see him hand over a thick packet of photographs taken with an instant camera. She had underestimated him. The boy had been very busy during her morning nap in the tourist cabin. And she even approved of him holding out on her.

“I shot every square inch of the lot on a grid,” said the trooper. “On the backs, you’ll find the location where I found every item in the bag.” He pointed to an area on the top photograph. “That dollar bill is mine. I put it there to give some scale for the tire track.”

Mallory smiled. Early this morning, after her first failed meeting with this trooper, she had borrowed Sally’s o ld Polaroid camera to make her own record of the tire tread on the dusty pavement before it could blow away. Her shot was clearer, but, in many ways, his was better. And the second photograph would remain in her knapsack.

“I know that tire tread was there at sunrise,” said the trooper. “That’s when the waitress opened the diner. She didn’t see any vehicles parked in that same spot before I got here. The tread mark was real close to the green Ford.”

All four of the technicians showed great interest in this picture.

And the FBI agent kept his silence.

Wise choice.

The trooper signed receipts for the photographs, then handed the technicians another surprise, a diagram of the parking lot and every item found. Hoffman had even marked it by compass points.

The senior technician nodded his approval. “Nice job, son-especially if it goes to court. Made by the first officer on the scene.” Alongside this diagram, he held up the trooper’s best photograph and openly admired it. “Doesn’t get much better than this.”

And that was all that was needed to make the FBI agent look like a complete fool, but Mallory had one last touch. “Don’t forget the marks you found on the Ford’s bumper.”

They had not been on speaking terms for the past hour, and it took a moment for the trooper to understand that her find now belonged to him-a present. “Chain marks,” he said. “Looks like the Ford might’ve been towed into this lot by the other car.”

The FBI agent stepped forward to break up this festival of love between his people-traitors-and the local cop. “Thanks for your help, kid. We can take it from here.”

The trooper stood his ground, all but digging his heels into the asphalt.

“Hey,” said the fed, “we’re gonna dust the car for prints, maybe cut out some upholstery. We are not going to load the whole fucking car into that helicopter. So you can hit the road, okay? I’ll give you a call when we’re done. You can have it towed anyplace you like. Fair enough?”

“No, sir,” said Hoffman. “My captain told me to stay. And he wants an inventory of everything you take with you.” He looked to Mallory for backup.

She sighed. It might be hours instead of minutes before she got back on the road. But now she realized that Chicago Homicide had not surrendered gracefully-not at all. She had already guessed that Kronewald had a bigger stake in this than one dead body found in his hometown.

“Back off,” said Mallory. Every pair of eyes was on her as she spoke to the FBI agent. “The trooper stays, and that’s not negotiable. You’re outnumbered here. So play nice.”

“Well, math isn’t my strong point,” said the fed. He turned his smile on the crime-scene technicians. They did not smile back. “I count-”

“They’re civilians-no weapons,” said Mallory. “I misspoke. I should’ve said you were outgunned.” Turning to the technicians, she said to them, ordered them, “Wait by the helicopter.”

The four men turned around and walked toward the far side of the lot until the startled fed found his voice and yelled, “Just stop right there!” He turned to Mallory, his voice strained but calmer when he said, “I need to see your badge. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

The detective pulled a black wallet from the pocket of her jeans, opened it and held up her gold shield, as if it were a talisman for warding off fools. Cops were dirt to this man, and she knew that, but the fed already had his little smile in place for settling minor turf wars with local cops ranking higher than a trooper. He leaned down for a closer look at her badge and ID card so that he could use her name in a sentence and win her heart- she knew this drill too well.