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few steps later he said, “Though with politicos, good luck keeping their lips from flapping.”
    “So far Latch seems to be complying,” I said. “I ran into him in the hall as he was leaving. Tried to get some information from him and received zip.”
    He turned his head and looked at me. “What kind of information?”
    “Some sort of basic description of the sniper. Who he was. Anything tangible. The kids need to form an image of their enemy.” I repeated the rationale I’d given Linda and Gordon Latch. “They’re already asking questions, Milo. It would increase my effectiveness to be able to answer some of them.”
    He said, “Just basics, huh? Who he
was
.”
    I nodded. “Of course, any details you can tell me would be useful. Short of an ‘informational infraction.’”
    He didn’t smile. “Details. Well, first thing I can tell you is that you’re operating on a false premise.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It wasn’t a
he
. It was a
she
.”

4
    The restaurant was dim and mock-English: collections of tankards and heraldic shields displayed on rough-textured dun walls, dartboards in “Ye Olde Pub Room,” lots of distressed crossbeams, the tallowy, sweet smell of seared meat. A catacomb jumble of small dining rooms. A re-spectful maitre d’ had seen to it that ours was empty.
    Milo looked up from his T-bone, put down his knife, and took something out of his coat pocket that he slid across the table.
    A piece of white paper, folded double. In the center was a photocopy of a driver’s license.
    The photo was dark and blurred. A young female face, oval, unsmiling. A little weak-chinned. Thin neck. White blouse. Dark straight hair, cropped short. Straight-edge bangs hovering above arched eyebrows.
    I searched the features for something—some harbinger of violence. The eyes looked a little dull. Sullen. Heavy-lidded, shallow as rain puddles. But that could have been the poor quality of the copy or weariness at waiting in line at the DMV. Other than that, nothing. Average. A face you’d never notice.
    I read the ID data.
     
    HOLLY LYNN BURDEN
1723 JUBILO DR
OCEAN HEIGHTS CA 90070
SEX: F HAIR: BRN EYES: BLUE
HT: 5-05 WT: 117 DOB: 12-12-68
RSTR: CORR LENS
     
    “Local girl,” I said.
    “Very local. That address is five blocks from the school.”
    “Jubilo Drive. Spanish for ‘joy.’ And I think
Esperanza
means ‘hope.’”
    “A-plus, Sherlock. You caught the pattern. The street next to Jubilo’s Belleza Court. ‘Beauty.’ Some optimistic urban planner.”
    “Hispanophile urban planner,” I said. “Guess the locals don’t share the spirit.”
    “Hey,” he said, “street names are one thing; letting them marry your sister’s another.”
    I examined the picture again, reread the information. “What do you know about her?”
    “Just what you see in front of you. Frisk says ATD will be checking out known associates—going through their subversive files to see if her name comes up. When he left us he was on his way to her house.”
    “Nineteen years old,” I said and gave him the paper. He folded it back up and put it away.
    “Now forget you saw it, Alex.
I’m
not even supposed to have a copy.”
    “Why not?”
    “Official ATD document.”
    “How’d you get it?”
    He shrugged and began sawing his steak. “After the print boys finished, Frisk designated one of the offices as a ‘data collection center.’ Had all the evidence hoarded in there, I just happened to saunter in when he just happened to take a leak. There just happened to be this Xerox ma-chine that kept whispering, ‘Turn me on, big boy.’ You know how I’ve always been a sucker for the soft touch.”
    “Why all the obsession with secrecy, Milo? Once Frisk gave you her name, you could have gotten the license yourself. Hell, I could get it
my
self.”
    “That’s the way ATD works—comes from spending too much of their time hanging around Washington. The Department sends them there—and to FBI heaven at