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Three.
    â€œSorry, Detective. I laid down for a second—”
    â€œCompletely understandable, Ms. Jenkins.”
    Calliope lay back, frowning at the ceiling. “I was supposed to be at the office. You were going to—did you, what did you find out about the answering machine?” She sat up on the edge of the bed and pushed her hair out of her face.
    â€œWe got some more of the recording, although the techs say some of it simply isn’t there to be recovered.” There was a pause and Calliope could hear the rustle of papers over the line. “Do you know . . . someone called the fat man?”
    Calliope paused, wondering if she’s misheard.
    This is the part where I realize I’m dreaming.
    â€œMs. Jenkins?”
    Calliope shook the thought away. “I’m sorry; I heard you ask if I know ‘the fat man’? Please be joking.”
    The papers shuffled again. “I’m definitely not joking, Ms. Jenkins. The last portion of the recording seems to be ‘the fat man knows what’s going on, so just get hold of him and he’ll be able to explain most of this to you.’ ”
    â€œI’ll see you soon,” Calliope murmured.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œ ‘I’ll see you soon’,” she repeated. “That was the very last part of the message.”
    â€œYes,” the detective replied after a moment. He didn’t say anything else, and the silence stretched to the point of being awkward.
    Calliope cleared her throat. “The fat man.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œI have no damn idea what he’s talking about, Detective. I’m sorry.”
    There was a pause. “You’re sure?”
    â€œI am,” Calliope said.
    â€œWould you mind if we had an officer check over Mr. White’s files for some reference to this?”
    â€œOh, who do you hate that much?” Calliope whispered.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œNothing. Thinking out loud.” Calliope pulled herself upright. “Yes, Detective, that would be fine; you’re welcome to it.” When he didn’t respond, she added. “Detective?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Ms. Jenkins. Thank you. Could we meet at your office in an hour?”
    â€œI’ll be there.”

    It was well over two hours later when Calliope finally pulled up at the office in her Jeep. Two cars—unmarked, but unmistakably law enforcement—waited outside. A younger agent climbed out of one as she pulled up, followed by Johnson in the other.
    â€œSorry for making you wait. The traffic was terrible.” Calliope could hear the tension in her voice; she’d never minded being late, but it irritated her when the delay wasn’t her doing.
    Johnson shook his head to deflect the apology. “Not at all, Ms. Jenkins. This is Agent Hyde. He works with Special Agent Walker.” The younger man offered his hand in greeting. Calliope filled it with a spare office key. “Door you want’s on the right, coffee’s in the cabinet. Feel free to pull files into the front room to get away from the smell.” The younger officer hesitated, then nodded in a way that felt like a salute and headed inside.
    Calliope watched the young man walk away. “Junior agent?”
    â€œWhen I was a rookie in homicide they made me categorize the dog feces samples taken from a crime scene at a county animal shelter,” Johnson deadpanned. “Walker’s letting him off easy.”
    Calliope smirked. “If that’s everything, Detective?”
    He scanned her face. He’s got police eyes, she thought. Sad, and nice, but still police eyes.
    â€œEverything regarding this,” Johnson replied. “But can I ask an unrelated question?”
    Calliope crossed her arms against the evening chill. “Sure.”
    â€œDon’t be offended, but I was expecting you to ask for a warrant.”
    Calliope studied his face in turn. “This