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all about personal as well as public politics. I didn’t care if his career would be served by taking on the case. All that mattered to me was keeping the Kessler family alive.
    And that this particular lifter was involved.
    â€œAlors,” Westerfield said. “There we have it. Kessler’s been poking his nez where it doesn’t belong. We need to find out where, what, who, when, why. So, let’s get the Kesslers into the slammer fast and go from there.”
    â€œSlammer?” I asked.
    â€œYessir,” Teasley said. “We were thinking Hansen Detention Center in D.C. I’ve done some research and found that HDC has just renovated their alarm systems and I’ve reviewed the employee files of every guard who’d be on the friendly wing. It’s a good choice.”
    â€œC’est vrai.”
    â€œA slammer wouldn’t be advisable,” I said.
    â€œOh?” Westerfield wondered.
    Protective custody, in a secluded part of a correctional facility, makes sense in some cases but this wasn’t one of them, I explained.
    â€œHm,” the prosecutor said, “we were thinking you could have one of your people with them inside, non ? Efficient. Agent Fredericks and you can interview him. You’ll get good information. I guarantee it. In a slammer, witnesses tend to remember things they wouldn’t otherwise. They’re all happy-happy.”
    â€œThat hasn’t been my experience in circumstances like these.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œYou put somebody in detention, yes, usually a lifter from the outside can’t get in. And”—a nod toward Teasley, conceding her diligent homework—“I’m sure the staff’s been vetted well. With any other lifter, I’d agree. But we’re dealing with Henry Loving here. I know how he works. We put the Kesslers inside, he’ll find an edge on one of the guards. Most of them are young, male. If I were Loving, I’d just find one with a pregnant wife—their first child, if possible—and pay her a visit.” Teasley blinked at my matter-of-fact tone. “The guard would do whatever Loving wanted. And once the family’s inside there’re no escape routes. The Kesslers’d be trapped.”
    â€œLike petits lapins, ” Westerfield said, though not as sarcastically as I’d expected. He was considering my point.
    â€œBesides, Kessler’s a cop. We’d have trouble getting him to agree. There could be a half dozen cons he’s put inside HDC.”
    â€œWhere would you stash them?” Westerfield asked.
    I replied, “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think about it.”
    Westerfield gazed up at the wall too, though I couldn’t tell at which picture or certificate or diploma. Finally he said to Teasley, “Give him Kessler’s address.”
    The young woman jotted it in far more legible handwriting than her boss’s. When she handed it to me I was hit by another blast of perfume.
    I took it, thanking them both. I’m a competitive game player—all sorts of games—and I’ve learned to be humble and magnanimous in victory, a theory I’d carried over to my professional life. A matter of courtesy, of course, but I’d also found that being a good winner gives you a slight advantage psychologically when you play against the same opponent in the future.
    They rose. The prosecutor said, “Okay, do what you can—find out who hired Loving and why.”
    â€œOur number-one priority,” I assured him, though it wasn’t.
    â€œAu revoir. . . .” Westerfield and Teasley breezed out of the doorway, the prosecutor giving sotto voce orders to her.
    I too rose. I had to stop at the town house and pick up a few things for the assignment.
    â€œI’ll report from the location,” I told Ellis.
    â€œCorte?”
    I stopped at the door and glanced back.
    â€œNot sending the Kesslers to the