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me?”
    Vance blinked. “McGuire, I am not sending a mixed team of detectives to California to interrogate a suspect and return him in custody. Detective Parsons is first-rate, but she is hardly the best choice to strong-arm a prisoner across the country.” He blinked again. “Besides, you’ll have to stay overnight in Palm Springs . . .”
    â€œAnd you won’t approve separate rooms for them on the travel expense budget,” McGuire interrupted.
    Vance rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “That’s a factor, I’ll admit. More important, I need Detective Parsons here as an armed and qualified member of the investigation staff. Until you’re armed and fully in tune with operations again, she’s more valuable to me here than you are. You’ll be unarmed, but Innes will provide all the protection you should need.”
    McGuire nodded and glanced back at the file. “When do we leave?” he asked.
    â€œFirst thing tomorrow. Get Crawford back here and we can clear the case out. Get on with other things. You ask me, I don’t think Crawford will ever come to trial. Sounds like a one-oh-four to me. With a credible eyewitness and all, the lawyer’s got to be looking at an insanity.” Vance looked over at a scratchpad cluttered with notes. “I’ve rearranged Innes’s duties. The two of you get in to Palm Springs tomorrow afternoon, do a preliminary interrogation, finish the paperwork, and board a flight back on Wednesday with Crawford in custody.”
    McGuire scrutinized the file material. Only one sheet of paper identified the victim: Ross William Amos, forty-eight years old, of Morningside, Virginia. His occupation was listed as Security Inspector, US Postal Service. There was less information on the victim than McGuire had ever seen in a murder file. No statements from next of kin, no interviews with acquaintances, no further action prescribed.
    Vance’s pen was tapping his desk top again.
    McGuire noted a telephone number scribbled under “I.D. Information Sources” at the bottom of the Victim Information Form.
    â€œMcGuire,” Vance said impatiently, “you’ve got your assignment. We both have work to do. Let’s get going.”
    â€œWe’ve all got ’em on our desks now.” Ralph Innes gestured at the computer screen. “Best thing the department did was link us all up with these things. You want to know what size of underwear J. Edgar Hoover wore, it tells you. Just a matter of knowing where to look and how to get through the code.”
    McGuire pulled a chair closer to the desk and sipped his coffee. “You hooked up to Washington?” he asked.
    â€œHooked up to everywhere. What do you want to know?”
    â€œSomething about this Amos guy. We’ve got one sheet that tells me nothing.”
    â€œAll I could get, Joe.” Innes shrugged. “Guy had federal government security clearance. Things are locked up down there. You need FBI or Secret Service codes to get into the files. Look at this.”
    Innes entered a series of numbers into the computer, leaned back and waited for the screen to display several short paragraphs of text and symbols.
    â€œSee?” Innes stretched an arm toward the computer. “Place and date of birth, marital status, Social Security number, education, home address, military record, work history, and that’s it.”
    McGuire squinted to bring the characters into focus. At the base of the screen he read: “Further reference, file #A28874–66.” He nodded at the screen. “What happens if you request that number?”
    Innes clicked the computer keyboard a few times with a speed and ease that impressed McGuire. “Watch,” he said, and leaned back in his chair again.
    A status line flashing the words NOT ACCESSIBLE appeared at the base of the computer screen.
    â€œThat’s where the Feds can get at