“I kid you not.” He hit Print, and the office clunker started cranking out a copy of the directions.

“I can’t believe this is your harebrained scheme and not mine,” she said.

“You’ll have to dress more appropriately, of course.”

“What do you mean?” she asked indignantly.

“Trade in the bureau uniform.”

She was used to going undercover in jeans. Otherwise, her suits were nearly the only clothing she had in her closet. She looked down at her navy pantsuit and white blouse. “This isn’t so obvious. I could be a … banker.”

He swiveled his chair around. “The second you walked onto the set, the actors and actresses would pull the sheets over their heads.”

“Are there sheets?” she asked.

“Good question.” He tapped his keys, and a video came up on his screen. “Here’s one of their earlier films.”

“How early?”

“Last month. The critics gave it four out of five penises.”

“I don’t see any sheets,” she said, leaning in to get a look. “All I see are big boobs and lots of water.”

“These people are at the commercial epicenter of this fetish,” Creed said. “They should be able to give you the names of the big players. Maybe there’s a local person known for pushing the envelope. Perhaps there’s a whole club or cult that takes it to the limit and beyond. Could be your prof is a charter member.”

“What’s my story?”

“Here’s what I told them.”

She stepped around to face him. “You … called them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So how did you contact them?”

“We exchanged e-mails.”

“Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

“I told them I represented some venture capitalists who were interested in investing in their operation.”

She slowly nodded. “I suppose that works.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No. That’s a good yarn. I can work with that.”

He folded his arms in front of him. “Don’t tell me you want to waltz in and pass yourself off as an actress.”

“Ruben … no,” she sputtered.

He threw his head back and laughed. “You do! That’s what you want to do! You want to play porn star!”

“Not porn star. I know I have modest … acting abilities.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I just figured I could go in as an extra. That way I could keep my clothes on.”

“First off, these films don’t have extras,” he said. “Either you’re naked or you’re not on-screen. Are you willing to get naked for this case?”

Her arms tightened around her body. “No.”

“Secondly, at the ripe old age of …” He squinted at her. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Really? You don’t look that old. You could pass for thirty.”

“Thanks. I guess. You were saying?”

“They like them in their early twenties, so you’re too old to be answering a casting call for a porn film.”

“Thanks again,” she said.

“You’re a venture capitalist.” He nodded toward her dark suit. “A venture capitalist in something other than an FBI uniform.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll put on a colored blouse.”

“For accessories, I’d suggest a Glock.”

“I never leave home without it.” She went over to the office printer and retrieved the directions to the studio.

“Do you think you should take someone with you?”

She read the directions. The studio was just outside Eden Prairie, a second-ring suburb southwest of Minneapolis. The area was punctuated by parks, green space, and rolling hills overlooking the Minnesota River. “This isn’t exactly a rough neighborhood.”

“But it can be a rough business.”

She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get sloppy, missy,” he warned. “It’s gotten you in trouble before.”

Was that a veiled reference to the basement mess? How would he know about that? She let it go. “I’ll be careful.”

“Want me to accompany you and cover your back?” he asked.

He couldn’t do that. Could he? Again, she didn’t want to know. “Keep working the case from here. See if you can come up with any other local links. You made more progress today than your partner. All I did was piss off a prof, then aggravate somebody’s shrink and get thrown out of his office by his receptionist.”

“I’ll keep at it,” Creed said.

“What time are they expecting me at this studio?”

“They’re shooting all day, so it’s pretty wide open.”

“Did you give them a name? What’s our company’s name?”

“Capital City Venture Group.”

“My name?”

“I didn’t know if you’d be going alone or what you had for ID, so I left that and a whole lot of other particulars up in the air.”

“And they were okay with that?”

“They want our money.”

“If they ask for ID, I’ve got something I can whip out.”

“I figured as much. But just in case …” He opened the top drawer of his desk and fished out a handful of business cards. “Feel free to use these.”

She took them and read: Capital City Venture Group. “From an old undercover assignment?”

“Real old.”

She eyed the name on the card. “Chris Udahl. That’s a good gender-neutral name. Works for me. But what about the phone number?”

“Rings to one of the cells in my desk. My voice mail will pick it up.”

“Still works?”

“Far as I know. If it doesn’t, who cares? This is a one-time-only visit to the set, right?”

“I sure as hell hope so. This whole water porn thing is …” She searched for the right word.

“Icky,” he offered.

She took her coat off the back of her chair and stuffed the business cards inside the pocket. “I’ll go home and change and drive over there right now. Get it over with.”

“Take a bureau car,” he said.

“Jeez,” she said, slipping her coat on. “You’re starting to sound just like Garcia.”

“Since you brought up his name … Aren’t you going to get permission from our ASAC for this little expedition to the nether-world?”

She still hadn’t briefed Garcia on the bums-in-the-basement fiasco. She’d save that treat for later. “I’ll give him a holler while I’m on the move.”

BERNADETTE CALLED Garcia on her cell while walking to her loft.

“How’d the visit with the shrink go?” he asked.

“He wouldn’t give me a thing.”

“No surprise. Patient privacy, right?”

“I think he’s more worried about getting sued by Klein’s family,” she said. “I left him my card, in case he changed his mind.”

She told him where she was headed next and why, and briefed him on the story she was using to gain access to the studio. Because she was afraid it would freak him out, she omitted the fact that Creed had actually set it up. Garcia was surprisingly receptive and offered to join her.

“Aren’t you busy pulling together the surveillance?” she asked.

“Everything’s set,” he said. “You’ve got the second shift. Since he’d recognize you, I figured late would be better. He should be all tucked in.”

“Who drew the short straw in partnering with me?”

“I did.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Great,” she said evenly.

“I’ll meet you at this porn place,” he said. “We’ll say I’m another one of the players in this … What’s it called again?”

“Capital City Venture Group.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“Uh …”

“How did you come up with it?”

“Yeah—uh … I found some old cards in Creed’s desk.”

“Creed. I remember that sting.” Silence on his end. Then: “Did he—”

“Here’s the address,” she interrupted. “Oh, and don’t dress like a fed, Tony.”

SHE FOUND a forest-green suit in the back of her closet and tried it on with a cream-colored silk blouse and black pumps. The short skirt exposed more leg than she liked and the low-cut blouse revealed some cleavage, but the ensemble did make her appear less federal. To complete the nongovernmental look, she ran a bead of bronze gloss over her lips, dusted her cheeks with blush, and put on a gold chain. When she slipped back into her coat and leather gloves, however, she realized her clothing change had been for naught. Her outerwear screamed FBI. The Crown Vic would do the same.