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surmised.
    “Well, Agent Corte—”
    “Just Corte’s fine.”
    “One name? Like a rock star.”
    My ID has two initials but I never use them or anything more than Corte. Like some people, Ryan seemed to consider this pretentious. I didn’t explain to him that it was simply a wise strategy; when it came to my business, the rule was to give people—good people, bad or neutral—as little information about myself as possible. The more people who know about you, the more compromised you are and the less efficiently you can do your job protecting your principals.
    “Agent Fredericks is on his way over,” I told him.
    A sigh. “This is all a big mixup. Mistaken identity. There’s nobody who’d want to threaten me. It’s not like I’m going after the J-Eights.”
    One of the most dangerous Latino gangs in Fairfax.
    “Still, I’d like to come in if I could.”
    “So you’re, what, like protection detail?”
    “Exactly.”
    He looked me over. I’m a little under six feet and weigh about 170, a range of five pounds plus or minus depending on the nature of the assignment and my deli-sandwich preference of the month. I’ve never been in the army; I’ve never taken the FBI course at Quantico. I know some basic self-defensebut no fancy martial arts. I have no tattoos. I get outside a fair amount, jogging and hiking, but no marathons or Iron Man stuff for me. I do some push-ups and sit-ups, inspired by the probably erroneous idea that exercise improves circulation and also lets me order cheese on my deli sandwich without guilt. I happen to be a very good shot and was presently carrying a Glock 23—the .40—in a Galco Royal Guard inside-the-pants holster and a Monadnock retractable baton. He wouldn’t know that, though, and to Ryan Kessler, the protection package would be looking a little meager.
    “Even them.” His eyes swung toward the FBI car across the street. “All they’re doing is upsetting my wife and daughter. The fact is, they’re a little obvious, don’t you think?”
    I was amused that we’d had the same observation. “They are. But they’re more a deterrent than anything.”
    “Well, again, I’m sorry for the waste of time. I’ve talked it over with my boss.”
    “Chief of Detectives Lewis. I spoke to him too on the way over here.”
    Ronald Lewis, with the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police Department. Squat, with a broad face, dark brown skin. Outspoken. I’d never met him in person but heard he’d done a good job turning around some of the more dangerous neighborhoods in the city, which was one of the more dangerous cities in the country. He’d risen high in the MPD from street patrol in South East and was a bit of a hero too, like Ryan Kessler.
    Ryan paused, registering that I’d been doing my homework. “Then he told you he doesn’t know anyreason I’d be a target. I really will have to ask you to leave now. Sorry you wasted your time.”
    I said, “Mr. Kessler, just do me a favor? Please. Let me come in and lay out a few things. Ten minutes.” I was pleasant, not a hint of irritation. I said nothing more, offered no reasons—arguments held in doorways are hard to win; your opponent can just step back and close the door. I now simply looked up at him expectantly. My eyes never left his.
    He sighed again. Loudly. “I guess. Come on. Five minutes.” He turned and, limping, led me through the neat suburban house, which smelled of lemon furniture polish and coffee. I couldn’t draw many conclusions about him or his family from my observations but one thing that stood out was the framed yellowing front page of The Washington Post hanging in the den: H ERO C OP S AVES T WO D URING R OBBERY .
    A picture of a younger Ryan Kessler accompanied the story.
    On the drive here Claire duBois, as efficient as a fine watch, had given me a backgrounder on Ryan. This included details of the officer’s rescue. Some punk had robbed a deli downtown in the District, panicked and started