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called the LEAP Bar. The acronym LEAP probably meant nothing to the layperson but was very well known to federal law enforcement types.
    LEAP stood for “Law Enforcement Availability Pay.” In exchange for being available at least ten hours a day for work that required a badge, a gun and more than a modicum of guts, federal officers received from their respective agencies a 25 percent bump in their base pay. Naming the bar LEAP was a brilliant marketing move by the saloon owners because the place had been packed from day one with pistol-toting men and women.
    Alex passed through the front door and edged up to the bar. On the wall facing him were dozens of arm patches with the insignias of law enforcement agencies. Adorning the other walls were framed newspaper articles of heroic deeds by the FBI, DEA, ATF, FAM and other such agencies.
    When Alex saw her, he grinned, in spite of wanting to remain cool and unaffected by her presence.
    “Beefeater martini on the rocks with not two, or four, but three plump olives,” she said, eyeing him with an accompanying smile.
    “Good memory.”
    “Yeah, it’s really tough considering you never order anything else.”
    “How’s DOJ treating you?”
    Kate Adams was the only bartender of his acquaintance who was also a Department of Justice lawyer.
    She handed him his drink. “Hunky-dory. How’s the Service treating you?”
    “The paychecks keep coming and I keep breathing. That’s all I ask.”
    “You really should raise your standards.”
    Kate mopped up the bar as Alex kept shooting discreet glances her way. She was five-seven with slender curves and shoulder-length blond hair curling around a long neck. She had high cheekbones with a slim, straight nose between, leading down to a shapely chin. In fact, everything about her was cool and classical until you got to the eyes. They were large and green and, to Alex, evidenced a fiery, passionate soul lurking within. Single, a GS-15 and in her mid-thirties—he’d checked on the government database—Kate looked five years younger than that. It was a pity, Alex thought, since he looked every bit his age, though his black hair had not yet started to thin or gray. Why, he didn’t know.
    “You’re getting skinny,” she remarked, breaking into his thoughts.
    “Being out of protection, I’m not standing around shoveling in hotel food, and I actually get to work out instead of sitting my butt on a plane for ten hours at a crack.”
    He’d been coming here for over a month and chitchatting with the woman. He wanted to do more than that, though, and now tried to think of something that would hold her attention. He suddenly glanced at her hands. “So how long have you played the piano?”
    “What?” Kate said in a surprised tone.
    “Your fingers are calloused,” he observed. “A sure sign of a piano player.”
    She looked at her hands. “Or from a computer keyboard.”
    “No. Computer keys callous the tips only. Piano keys hit the full upper part of the finger. And that’s not all. You chew your nails down to the nubs. You have a dent in your left thumbnail, a scar on your right index finger, and your left pinkie is a little crooked, probably from a break when you were a kid.”
    Kate stared at her fingers. “What are you? Some sort of hand expert?”
    “All Secret Service agents are. I’ve spent a good chunk of my adult life looking at hands in all fifty states and a bunch of countries overseas.”
    “Why?”
    “Because people kill with their hands, Kate.”
    “Oh.”
    He was about to say something else when a group of FBI agents who’d just gotten off the last shift burst in, strode en masse to the bar and started ordering in loud voices. Alex, pushed away by their sheer number, took his drink and sat alone at a small table in a corner. However, his gaze remained fixed on Kate. The Bureau boys were giving the lovely bartender their fawning attention, which irritated the hell out of the Secret Service agent.
    Alex