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is, what the hell’s the connection?’
    Rose took a shallow breath.
    ‘I do crossword puzzles,’ she said. ‘Sometimes, when I can’t solve one right away, I put it aside. Some of my puzzles have been waiting for years.’
    ‘Secrecy is most of why we’re boots up in a pile of shit,’ Botnik said. ‘What if there’s another anthrax attack and you could have prevented it by sharing?’
    Rose stared straight ahead.
    ‘ Is there going to be another attack?’ Botnik asked.
    She climbed into the truck. The WAGD in her pocket buzzed. No squeeee of alarm, just a little warning buzz: all done. ‘Keep the rest of the boxes sealed and make sure nobody pokes around the open ones. Take along a HAZMAT team. I’d like a thorough fingerprint check and PCR on all of them. If HAZMAT clears them, I’d like them quietly removed from state jurisdiction and impounded as federal terrorist evidence. Send them on to Frank Chao at Quantico.’
    Botnik shrugged. ‘You got it.’ The two field agents climbed into the seats behind.
    ‘You’re investigating jammers, right?’ Rose asked.
    ‘We are,’ Botnik said.
    ‘What priority?’
    ‘Moderate.’
    ‘Push it higher. Let’s spread the theory that jammers might have killed Porter. And if you find our particular jammer, let me know.’
    ‘Anything to help.’
    The sun was coming up. ‘Could we drive west for a few miles?’ Rose asked. ‘Slowly. Before we return to Tucson.’
    ‘I hear and obey,’ Botnik said, and salaamed lightly over the steering wheel. ‘Looking for something in particular?’
    ‘Just being thorough.’ She leaned her head back, mouth gaping, pulled down one eyelid with a finger, and deposited a drop of Visine. She treated the other eye, returned the Visine to her coat, and removed the marker-sized analyzer. Reading small print was becoming harder and harder. The narrow LCD panel flashed happy zeroes. No WAGD biohazards were on the printer or inside the box. No anthrax. She hadn’t really expected any. They wouldn’t use the printers and then pack them up and ship them. Nobody was that stupid—nobody still alive.
    Half a mile down the road, she spotted something crumpled and black on the gravel shoulder. Botnik stopped to let her retrieve it.
    ‘Hatch Friskmaster, right hand,’ she said as she climbed back into the Suburban. Botnik pulled out another Baggie. She slipped it in and he sealed it.
    The earnest agent sitting directly behind her looked impressed. He held up a Thermos. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Christ, no thanks,’ she said briskly, her cheeks flushed. ‘I’d jump out of my skin.’
    Her slate buzzed in her pocket and she jerked. Botnik liftedthe corners of his lips. ‘Just like that,’ she said, then answered the slate.
    ‘Rebecca, it’s News.’ Hiram Newsome—News to friends and close associates—was Assistant Director of Training Division at Quantico. He had taught Rebecca most of what she knew and had long supported her work on this unfinished puzzle. ‘Tell Botnik to haul your ass back to Tucson. I’ve chartered you a jet to Seattle. Someone’s been ordering medical equipment they have no honest use for. I’ve told Griff you’re coming in. He’s irritated, of course.’
    ‘Erwin Griffin?’
    ‘The same. Play nice, Rebecca.’
    ‘Always,’ Rebecca said.

CHAPTER FOUR
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia
    Quantico is cop Valhalla. They say good cops go there when they die. Every day you solve crimes, make arrests, study hard, work out, do target practice, and at the end of the day you get together with your fellow agents in the boardroom, swig back some beers, and laugh. Hardly nobody gets hurt, nobody locks their doors, everyone knows the rules, and the bad guys always lose.
    —Note pasted on a bulletin board, Jefferson Dormitory, FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia
    I’m FBI. More beef!
    —Apocryphal incident in New York between an FBI agent and a deli sandwich maker.
    Hogantown covered twelve acres on the sprawling Academy