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it,” Innes explained. “They’ve got the codes.”
    â€œSo why don’t we just request the file from the Feds?” McGuire asked. “They can vet the information and pass it on to us.”
    â€œTried that. Guy at the FBI office said information would be held until the suspect is apprehended and we start preparing the case against him.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” McGuire said quietly. “They’re playing games with you because one of their guys got hit and they want the case.”
    Innes sighed and shook his head. “They want to put a brick wall in front of you, they can do it, Joe. You know that.”
    McGuire reached for a phone, then turned with an embarrassed smile back to Innes. “What’s local FBI?” he asked. “I forget.”
    Innes told him and McGuire dialled the number. He asked the FBI switchboard for agent Matthew Kennedy.
    Two years earlier, McGuire and Ollie Schantz had joined forces with Matt Kennedy to investigate a series of murders throughout Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine. McGuire remembered Kennedy as a workmanlike, easy-going man who saw beyond the petty jurisdictional jealousies that often arose between local police departments and their federal counterparts. Once, at the end of a long day spent sifting through witness statements and investigating officer reports, Kennedy had stood, yawned, and said, “This investigation needs two things right now. A beer and a couple games of pool.”
    Now, as he heard Kennedy’s voice on the other end of the telephone, McGuire recalled the billiards game and Kennedy’s wide smile, constant patter and keen eye at the pool table.
    â€œMatt, it’s Joe McGuire, Boston Homicide. Remember me?”
    McGuire heard a low, throaty laugh in response. “I remember you couldn’t drop an eight ball in a bucket if it was sitting on your lap,” Kennedy answered. “Hell, McGuire. I heard you’d shipped out to the Caribbean somewhere.”
    â€œI’m back, Matt. And I need some help.”
    â€œYeah, well first you have to learn to keep your shooting arm loose. Don’t let that elbow tense up. Keep it swinging free like a pendulum. I tried to tell you that the last time we played. Which was, what? Must be over a year ago. Want another lesson?”
    â€œEventually,” McGuire replied. “Right now, I need information on a federal employee who was shot a couple of weeks ago.”
    McGuire described his problem to Kennedy. Who was the victim, Ross Amos? Why were details of his background being withheld from local police departments?
    â€œDamned strange,” Kennedy mumbled. “Post office inspector? We’ve had access to tougher nuts than that. Give me the file number again.”
    McGuire read it from the computer screen and Kennedy promised to call back in ten minutes.
    â€œHe’s a good guy,” McGuire said to Innes when he hung up.
    But Ralph Innes was no longer seated next to him. The younger detective had moved to the window where he stood looking thoughtfully down at Berkeley Street.
    â€œYou okay?” McGuire asked.
    Innes turned and flashed a false smile. “Sure. I’m fine.”
    No you’re not, McGuire said to himself. You’re pissed because I’m moving in and taking charge of your case. And because we’ll be spending the next few days together, you and me. Hell of a team. One a former lover who helped end Janet’s marriage, and the other a young stud she wants to mother and protect.
    It’s going to be tough, McGuire realized. For both of us.
    Waiting for Kennedy’s telephone call, McGuire scanned the information sheet on Bunker Crawford, the prisoner they were to escort back from Palm Springs. Born in Newton, Kentucky, son of a factory worker. Graduated from Newton District High School, enlisted in the US Army, promoted to sergeant, assigned to Special Detail, 9th Division, Mercury,