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"FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, or whatever other acronyms they have. You know what I mean. Federal level."
"That's a problem?"
I twisted in my seat. "Yes, it's a problem. You tell me he's a cop, and I figure he's from some little force in Podunk, Maine. That I'm comfortable with. But a federal agent?" I shook my head. "Yes, I know, federal, state, local, he's still a cop, so you didn't lie, but you knew what conclusion I'd draw, and you let me draw it."
"He's clean."
"Says who? Says you? A federal agent has federal jurisdiction. Federal contacts. Access to federal databases. I'm not comfortable--"
"Nadia? His story's solid. He's not a plant. Not a threat, either. He flips? I flip harder."
I remembered what Quinn had said earlier, that Jack had more on him than vice versa.
"Not a threat," Jack repeated. "He was? Wouldn't have let you meet him."
I leaned back in my seat. "I know. It's just...federal makes me nervous. It's a cop thing. On the streets, you don't deal with them that much. Every now and then, we'd have the horsemen ride in, scoop up a case--"
"Horsemen?"
"RCMP." When his look didn't change, I said, "Mounties. Mounted police."
"They still ride horses?"
"Only in parades...and tourist photo ops."
"The red uniforms?"
"It's suits these days. Disney owns the uniform copyright anyway. I once asked a Mountie whether his dress uniform tag said 'Property of Walt Disney.' He wouldn't tell me, but he did offer to let me take his off and check for myself."
Jack shook his head. He pulled into the slow lane, and set his cruise control two miles over the speed limit. Then he looked at me. "About Quinn. Makes you nervous? Best thing you can do? Keep your distance."
"You mean stick to business. No socializing, no chatting, no jogging together..."
"Right."
I shook my head. "You said he was clean, and I trust you." I glanced at him. "You did say that, didn't you?"
A hesitation, then a soft exhale. "Yeah."
We'd agreed to meet Felix and Quinn at a baseball diamond in Chicago. When we arrived, Quinn and Felix were right inside the gates. I saw Quinn first, a tray of hot dogs and sodas in his hands, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt that pulled tight over his broad shoulders. His gaze lighted on me, and he grinned. My stomach did a little flip. I blamed it on the smell of the food.
"Got you a hot dog," Quinn said, thrusting it out like a bouquet of roses.
Beside me, Jack made a noise, half grunt, half sigh.
"Don't glower, Jack," Quinn said. "Got you one, too."
I took mine with thanks. Jack just looked at the tray.
Felix walked up behind Quinn and raised a half-eaten hot dog. "I can assure you, Jack, they're quite fine. He isn't trying to poison us...yet."
"One could argue that all hot dogs are poisonous," I said, as we fell into step and headed for the bleachers. "If you eat enough, they have to be at least as lethal as arsenic."
"Shhh," Quinn said. Then he held out the tray again. "Jack, have another."
"Someone's in a good mood," Jack said.
"Someone's in a fucking fantastic mood. We are finally going to nail this bastard."
