Shane says, “I know what you mean.”

“That was a figure of speech. What they call a rhetorical question.”

“Uh-huh. Is this where I’m supposed to apologize for putting you out?” Shane asks, ever so sweetly.

“That would be nice,” says Healy, sipping a tall glass of ice water and eyeing the kitchen door, where his spicy chicken melty thing has yet to emerge.

“I’ll have to work on it,” Shane says. “Get my apology all spiffy. Until then, what can you tell us about Edwin Manning and any connections he may have, financial or otherwise, to this area?”

Healy glances at me. My actual face, not my chest. “Maybe I’d share with you, Mr. Former Agent, but I’m not sharing with a civilian. No way. Not without an official investigation, a file open, on the books.”

Shane has been sort of going along with Healy, feeding the banter, but that changes in an instant. There’s a sudden chill in the air and it’s not the AC at Denny’s. “Mrs. Garner is not a civilian,” he reminds Healy. “She’s the mother of a missing child. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s the reason you’re here. Show some respect.”

Give Healy credit, he recognizes the change in Randall Shane’s attitude and right away he backs off. Probably pretty much the way a lion tamer backs off when the lion makes a certain kind of noise in its great big throat. Like, careful or I’ll get all snarly and have you for breakfast, and we don’t want that, do we?

Healy glances at me, nods. “Right, no disrespect intended. Just for the record, this violates every procedure but what the heck, this is between friends, right?”

“Absolutely,” says Shane.

“Totally,” I say.

“Okay then. Here goes.” Healy produces a small notebook, flips it open. “Item number one. Follow the money. We checked and there have been no recent large transfers of funds from any of Edwin Manning’s private accounts. At least not those we have been able to identify. Whether or not something has been fiddled on the other end, the business end, our forensic accountants can’t make that determination. Lots of money flows in and out of Merrill Manning Capital Fund. Many, many millions. Brokers and bankers buying and selling every day, it will take a while to sort that out, and as you know, former-agent Shane, private investment funds don’t have the same disclosure obligations as publicly traded funds. So, to sum it up, we’ve got nothing showing on the money front, but we can’t be certain nothing is happening.”

“It was a long shot. Thanks for trying.”

Healy flips a page. “Item two, Manning’s interests in South Florida. Substantial. Public record makes him the owner of a brand-new four-million-dollar condo on Brickell Avenue. That’s the financial district, not the beach, by the way. Penthouse with a helo pad, although he doesn’t presently own or lease a helicopter. Also, Merrill Manning Capital Fund is the primary investor in the new Nakosha gaming and casino complex. Can’t be certain the exact dollar figure, but the accountants say the fund has, at minimum, a hundred mil directly invested, and another three hundred leveraged offshore.”

“Indian casino?”

“Native American,” he says, correcting Shane. “Other than gaming rooms at racetracks, all the freestanding casinos in Florida are owned and operated by Native Americans.”

“How come I’ve never heard of the Nakosha?”

Healy shrugs, his handsome eyes slightly hooded. “Because they didn’t get full tribal status until about ten years ago? Because compared to the Seminoles and the Miccosukee they’re a small tribe? I can’t speak to what you don’t know. But what you really do need to know—and take this to the bank—is that the Nakosha have official legal status as a sovereign, domestic dependent nation, and no, repeat, no treaty arrangements with federal enforcement agencies. None whatsoever.”

“You’re serious,” Shane says, looking concerned.

“Deadly,” says Healy. “And since you seem so keen on that bit of information, I might tell you we have enforcement arrangements in place with the Seminole and the Miccosukee, but not the Nakosha. Legally they’re obliged to enforce federal statutes, but as a practical matter the enforcement has been, shall we say, problematic. Bottom line, they run their own show. We do not step over that line—that is, we do not set foot in Indian country—absent a directive from the AG. Who is not, as far as I know, a personal pal of yours.”

“Never met him,” Shane admits.

“So you need to forget the casino connection, stay away from the tribe.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Do I detect sarcasm?” Healy says, flipping a page in his notebook. “Here’s the good part. My boss had me write it down and instructed me to read it to you, word for word. Ready? Is everybody attentive?”

“We’re listening,” says Shane.

Some guys, the calmer they get, the more you pay attention. Randall Shane is one of those guys. Healy knows it but he can’t help himself, he keeps pushing.

“Here we go.” The agent makes a show of clearing his throat, starts reading. “‘Agents of the FBI and the Justice Department, whether active or retired, have no independent authority on Nakosha tribal lands, and if they do violate Nakosha tribal lands or interfere in Nakosha tribal business, may be found in violation of federal statute and subject to arrest.’” Healy pauses, gives Shane a triumphant smile. “Would you like me to repeat that?”

Shane smiles back. “I’ve got it, Special Agent Healy.”

“Good, because that’s all I’ve got. We’re finished here.” Healy leans back as the waitress delivers his melty thing on a hot plate, with enough fries on the side to stop a healthy young heart. He grunts happily as he reaches for the ketchup, dismissing his audience.

We stand up to leave.

“Oh,” says Healy without lifting his head, “there is one other thing. Edwin Manning is in the house.”

“Yeah? Like Elvis?” Shane responds.

“Exactly like Elvis. Manning arrived in Opa-locka on a Gulfstream charter flight two hours ago, went directly to his condo.”

“Alone?”

Healy shakes his head, slurps a fry. “Guys like that never travel alone. He’s got a security detail with him.”

“Bald head, arm in a sling?”

For the first time the agent looks surprised. “Careful,” he says, chewing with his mouth open. “You got big shot friends can call in favors, I’ll grant you that. But you’re no longer a law enforcement officer, pal. You get in trouble, call the cops. Maybe they’ll call us. We’ll open a file, get this party started.”

Shane herds me to the exit before I can comment on Mr. Healy’s table manners.

7. Stinking Badges

Have I mentioned that my father was a cop? Have I mentioned my father at all? There’s a good reason for that. File it under secrets to be revealed later, if ever. And no, I wasn’t sexually abused, so put that out of your dirty mind. Anyhow, my dad was New York State Police. A trooper. The black knee-high boots, the peaked hat, holstered sidearm, the whole six-foot package designed to impress and intimidate. As a small child I assumed that being a trooper meant he was not allowed to smile, not even when he was off duty. Later, after he was transferred to warrants, he rarely wore the uniform, although it was always ready in the closet, carefully draped in plastic. I was twelve before I realized that “warrants” meant arresting criminals and that he was, in fact, engaged in a dangerous business. Maybe that explained his dark view of the human race, or maybe the sour attitude was just his nature. My mother said he was different when he was young, and he must have been, for her to marry him. It wasn’t because she had to marry him. I came along five years later, at a time, she later confessed, when she was considering divorce. Years after that, after the final ugliness, I asked her what happened, what was wrong with my father, and she shrugged and said he changed. People do, she told me, and not always for the better.