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Demello. You didn’t know? Bathing accident, from what I hear.”
    “Look,” said Demello, his hands out and shaking now. “I got no reason to lie. If I had the pictures, I’d give ’em up. I’m tellin’ you—we gave ’em all to Jacobs. He paid for ’em, we handed ’em over. It was just a regular job.”
    “If it was just a regular job, we wouldn’t be here, would we? Where’s your partner?”
    “I don’t know. I swear to God I don’t.”
    Malloy slowly stepped toward him. “You don’t know much, do you? That’s too bad. And too bad for your partner when we find him.”
    “Oh God, please—”
    Malloy’s gun fired first, followed by Regnier’s. Jimmy Demello fell backward, dead before his head hit the carpet.
    The two visitors went to work, ignoring the body. Their work didn’t take long—the office was small, a few desk drawers and two dented file cabinets holding nothing ofinterest. The killers checked Jimmy Demello’s car before entering their own and driving away.
    Edmund Arminger leaned back in his black leather executive’s chair and pored over the Jacobs file yet again. For reasons even he wasn’t entirely certain of, he felt drawn to it. He sensed a deeper story within its pages, a secret he was expected to safeguard but not to share in. He felt a mild resentment toward Director Gordon for trying to stifle his curiosity. He was Senior Deputy Director of the country’s most powerful crime-fighting organization; he would not be dissuaded so easily.
    He placed the file aside. For the third time, he could see nothing. The report was routine but brief, revealing scant detail. Jacobs was, oddly enough, a foreigner, a Swiss whose real name was Martin Schmidt. There were dates, placement arrangements, a thin personal background report, and little else. Reason for placement was given in the vaguest possible terms:
protection of key witness.
    Arminger glanced at his watch. It was 1 A.M. , Wednesday morning, a time of day when most other deputy directors were home with their wives. Since his rather acrimonious separation two years before, he saw little reason to spend time in an empty house. After all, it was dedication and hard work that brought men to the top of their professions, and he would be living proof of that very shortly, just as soon as Arthur Gordon hobbled off into the sunset. In his opinion, it was high time his chief did just that.
    Deputy Director Arminger was forty-nine years old, five foot ten with unstylish flat hair, pale skin, and an unremarkably thin voice. Physically unimpressive, he was a man who might easily be overlooked were he to enter a room of unsuspecting agents. Those who knew Edmund Arminger recognized him for what he truly was: a shrewd and, some would say, cold leader, brilliant enough to beconsidered the imminent successor to the director himself. Every agent in the Eastern Region knew this and deferred to him because of it.
    Arminger raised his head to the sound of voices in the hallway. His guests had finally arrived.
    Director Gordon came with his usual escorts but left them in front of Arminger’s office, closing the door behind him. His eyes were red and heavy. The glare of the neon lights above made them look absolutely tortured. Arminger studied him and was startled at how old his chief looked that morning. Not much longer until the old man called it quits.
    “I know this is unexpected, Edmund,” said Gordon. “It’s important. I just found out that Jacobs will require a bit more than we thought.”
    Arminger wasn’t disappointed to hear this. He leaned forward on his desk and brought a hand to his chin as Gordon took a seat in front of him.
    “We have new duties,” said Gordon. “First thing we need to do is assign an agent to go down to the county courthouse and remove the Jacobs probate file. The plan eventually is to pull the death certificate, the property deed, and any other documents with his name. We’re erasing Jacobs from the public