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characters claiming to be FBI agents forcing their way into the Fitzgerald autopsy.”
    â€œThat would be us,” Sam said. Wynne nodded.
    â€œYeah.” Lewis frowned. “You want to tell me why we’re interested in this case?”
    Ordinarily, murder investigations were left up to local police forces in the jurisdictions in which they occurred. The FBI was called in only on certain extraordinary cases.
    â€œPossible link to multiple homicides with the UNSUB crossing state lines,” Sam said. Bureau policy was to share information on developing cases with local field agents, but in this case Sam interpreted that to mean on a strictly need-to-know basis. At this point, in Sam’s estimation, what he’d just said was about all Lewis needed to know. He remembered all too vividly how the details of the last investigation they’d worked on together had gotten leaked to the Times-Picayune within hours of the investigative team uncovering them. For all its population, New Orleans was a small town that way, and unless something had changed, Lewis had a way-too-cozy relationship with local reporters.
    Having this thing turn into a media circus was something they did not need. Especially when they were no closer to making an apprehension today than they had been when Sam had gotten the first call at the first murder scene four weeks ago.
    â€œHot damn,” Lewis said, rubbing his hands together in transparent glee. “You mean we got ourselves a serial killer?”
    â€œNah. Looks like a series of professional hits.” Sam slouched against the wall again. “ ’Course, it’s too early to say for sure.”
    Lewis gave a nod toward the building. “What was she into to get herself whacked?”
    â€œCould be a lot of things. At this point, we don’t really know.”
    â€œBut you’ve got an idea,” Lewis said, watching Sam.
    â€œActually, I’ve got no fucking clue,” Sam said, which had the double virtue of being the absolute truth while at the same time visibly annoying Lewis. Beside him, Wynne was working on blowing a big purple bubble. The sickly sweet grape smell wafted beneath Sam’s nose.
    â€œBullshit,” Lewis said.
    Sam shrugged. “Think what you want.”
    â€œYou’re operating in my neck of the woods now.” Lewis’s voice was sharp. “Whatever you’ve got on this case, I have a right to know it.”
    â€œYou’re absolutely correct. You do.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWhen I find something out, I’ll send you a memo.”
    â€œYou ...” Lewis went red with anger but swallowed the rest of what he’d been going to say. Sam gave him the faintest of smiles. Wynne’s bubble popped with a loud smack.
    â€œYou got a problem with memos?” Sam asked innocently. “I can do e-mails.”
    â€œYou suck, you know that?” Lewis said through his teeth, and started walking. “Come on, Greg, we need to head on in and tell Dr. Deland’s staff that, hard as it may be to believe, the creeps they were complaining about really are FBI agents.” As Simon started to move, Lewis glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. “You gonna hang around for a few minutes? When we come back out, maybe we can give you a lift over to Goodwill, help you pick out a couple of sport coats.”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œDickhead.” If that was meant to be a mutter, Lewis blew it big-time. Sam heard and gave him a jaunty little farewell wave.
    â€œSo when are you planning to start writing your book on winning friends and influencing people?” Wynne inquired with a sideways glance when Lewis and company had disappeared inside the building.
    Sam grinned. “Anytime now. I’m just working on building up the fan base first.”
    â€œYou know he’s probably gonna call Smolski”—Leonard Smolski was the head of the Violent Crimes division and their