TOWERING OVER CHEESE’S desk, Janos carefully took a slight step back and painted on a semifriendly grin. From the anxious look on Harris’s assistant’s face, the FBI windbreaker was already more than enough. As Janos well knew, if you squeeze the egg too hard, it shatters.

“You think he’s okay?” Janos asked in his best concerned tone.

“He sounded okay in his message,” Cheese replied. “More tired than anything else. He’s had a rough week, y’know, which is obviously why he’s taking the week off.”

“So he called this morning?”

“Actually, I think it was late last night. Now tell me again why you need to speak to him.”

“We’re just following up on Matthew Mercer’s death. The accident happened on federal land, so they wanted us to talk to a few of his friends.” Reading the look on Cheese’s face, Janos added, “Don’t worry… it’s just standard follow-up…”

The front door to the office opened, and a young black girl in a navy suit stuck her head inside. “Senate page,” Viv announced, balancing three small red, white, and blue boxes. “Flag delivery?” she said.

“The who what?” Cheese asked.

“Flags,” she repeated, checking out both Cheese and Janos. “American flags… y’know, the ones they fly over the Capitol, then sell to people just because it went up a flagpole on the roof… Anyway, I’ve got three here for a…” She read the words from the top box, “… for someone named Harris Sandler.”

“You can just leave ’em here,” Cheese said, pointing to his own desk.

“And mess up your stuff?” Viv asked. She motioned through the glass partition at Harris’s messy work space. “That your boss’s pigpen?” Before Cheese could answer, Viv headed through the door in the partition. “He wants the flags… let him deal with them.”

“See, now that’s what we gotta see more of,” Cheese called out, slapping his own chest. “Respect for the Kid!”

Eyeing the girl carefully, Janos watched as Viv approached Harris’s desk. She had her back to him, and her body blocked most of what she was doing, but from what Janos could tell, it was just a routine drop-off. Without a word, she cleared a space for the flag boxes, set them on Harris’s desk, and in one smooth motion, spun back toward the rest of the office. Viv jumped when she saw Janos staring right at her. There it was. Contact.

“H-Hey,” she said with a smile as their eyes locked. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Janos replied dryly. “Everything’s perfect.”

“So can you fly anything over the Capitol?” Cheese asked. “Socks? Underwear? I’ve got this vintage Barney Miller T-shirt that would love to go for a whirl.”

“Who’s Barney Miller?” Viv asked.

Cheese grabbed his chest in mock pain. “Do you have any idea how much that physically hurt? I’m slayed. Seriously. I’m bleeding inside.”

“Sorry,” Viv laughed, moving toward the door.

Janos looked back at Harris’s desk, where the flag boxes were neatly stacked in place. Even then, he didn’t think much of it. But as he turned back to Viv – as he listened to her giggle and as he watched her bounce toward the door – he saw the last passing glance that she aimed his way. Then he realized it wasn’t at him. It was at his windbreaker. FBI.

The door slammed, and Viv was gone.

“So what were we singing about again?” Cheese asked.

Still locked on the door, Janos didn’t answer. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to check out an FBI jacket… but add that to the way she walked in… going straight for Harris’s office…

“I know that look,” Cheese teased. “You’re rethinking that underwear-over-the-Capitol thing, aren’t you?”

“Have you ever seen her before?” Janos blurted.

“The page? No, not that I-”

“I have to go,” Janos said as he calmly turned toward the door.

“Just let me know if you need more help,” Cheese called out, but Janos was already on his way – out the door and up the hallway. She couldn’t have gotten…

There, Janos thought, smiling to himself.

Reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, Janos felt his way along the small black box and flipped the switch. The electrical hum rumbled quietly in his hand.

FLIPPING OPEN THE first of the two notebooks, I thumb to the Gs and continue to turn the pages until I finally reach the tab marked Grayson. Alphabetically organized by Member name, the subsections of the book have an in-depth analysis of every project that a Congressman asks for – including the transfer of a gold mine to a company called Wendell Mining.

Skimming past the original request that Grayson’s office submitted, I lick my finger and flip straight to the analysis. But as I speed-read the next three pages, I hear a familiar voice in my head. Oh, jeez. It’s unmistakable… the rambling at the beginning of a new thought… his overuse of the word specifically... even the way he rants a bit at the end. Without a doubt, these three pages were written by Matthew. It’s like he’s sitting right here next to me.

To his credit, the analysis is the same as what he originally said. The Homestead gold mine is one of the oldest in South Dakota, and both the town and state would benefit if Wendell Mining got the land and took over the mine. To drive the point home, there are three photocopied letters clipped into the notebook: one from the Bureau of Land Management, one from the Wendell Mining CEO, and a final gushing recommendation from the mayor of Leed, South Dakota, the town where the mine is located. Three letters. Three letterheads. Three new phone numbers to call.

The first call to BLM gets me voice mail. Same with the call to the CEO. That leaves only the mayor. Fine by me. I’m better with politicians any day.

Dialing the number, I let the phone ring in my ear and glance down at my watch. Viv should be back any…

“L-and-L Luncheonette,” a man with a cigarette-burned voice and Hollywood-cowboy drawl answers. “What c’n I do?”

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, glancing down at the bottom of the letter. “I was looking for Mayor Regan’s office.”

“And who should I say is calling?” the man asks.

“Andy Defresne,” I say. “From the House of Representatives. In Washington, D.C.”

“Well, why didn’t you say?” the man adds with a throaty laugh. “This is Mayor Regan.”

I pause, suddenly thinking of my dad’s barbershop.

“Not used to small towns, are ya?” the mayor laughs.

“Actually, I am.”

“From one?”

“Born and raised.”

“Well, we’re smaller,” he teases. “Guaranteed or your money back.”

God, he reminds me of home.

“Now, what c’n I do?” he asks.

“To be honest-”

“Wouldn’t expect anything but,” he interrupts, laughing wildly.

He also reminds me why I left.

“I just had a quick question about the gold mine that’s-”

“The Homestead.”

“Exactly. The Homestead,” I say, nervously tapping a finger against one of the spare keyboards in the room. “So, getting back… I’m working on Congressman Grayson’s request for the land sale…”

“Oh, don’t everybody love a fight.”

“Some do,” I play along. “Personally, I’m just trying to make sure we do the right thing and put local interests first.” He’s silent at that, enjoying the sudden attention. “Anyway, as we push for the request, we’re trying to think who else we should go to for support, so would you mind walking me through how the town might benefit from the sale of the mine taking place? Or better yet, is there anyone in particular who’s excited by the deal going through?”

As he’s done twice before, the mayor laughs out loud. “Son, to be honest, you got as much chance sucking bricks through a hose as you do finding someone who’ll benefit from this one.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“And maybe I don’t, either,” the mayor admits. “But if I were putting up my money for a gold mine, I’d at least want one that had some gold.”