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daylight, following one diplomatic vehicle that is probably on its way to their compatriot’s beach house. There are no ambushes ahead, and we do not need a spotter craft or a Black Hawk gunship overhead.” I suggested, “Just drive.”
    “Yes, sir.” She added, “I hope we get ambushed.”
    Me, too, if it shuts her up.
    If Ms. Faraday thought that I was not in the best of moods, she was right. And if I thought about why, I’d conclude that I might be having some marital difficulties. Nothing major at the moment, except that we seemed to have little to say to each other.
    When Kate and I worked together, we fought a lot about the job, but they were good fights and ironically it brought us closer together. Especially when my unorthodox methods led to the successful conclusion of a big case.
    Now, however, I had no big cases and never would with this job. Meanwhile, Kate’s career arc was rising, and I’m following assholes all day. I don’t even carry handcuffs anymore. I’m not even sure I have arrest powers. On the plus side, my NYPD rank follows me for life and I’m still Detective John Corey. Small consolation.
    Big egos deflate quickly, and mine even half-deflated is twice as big as anyone else’s. But I needed to do something—like get another job commensurate with my skills and experience, and my bloodhound instincts. And my big ego. Maybe something in foreign intelligence. I pictured myself calling Kate from, say, Iran. “I’ll just be another few weeks here, sweetheart. Gotta check out a secret nuclear facility and kidnap an atomic physicist. Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning. Ciao.”
    The male ego is a wondrous thing.
    On that subject, Mrs. Faraday decided to confess, “I have actually asked to work with you.” She inquired, “Do you want to know why?”
    “No.”
    “You do. So I’ll tell you.”
    I waited for her to tell me, but she said, “But not today. I just wanted to fess up and make sure you don’t mind.”
    I wondered who the hell she was talking to, and why Howard Fensterman, the FBI supervisor running the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would even consider her request. That didn’t compute. In fact, there were a few things about Tess Faraday that were not computing. For all I knew, she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility—sort of like the NYPD’s Internal AffairsBureau—and she was writing me up. But that’s a little paranoid. More likely, she or her family had some connections at 26 Fed, or she had good persuasive powers with whoever was running the DSG trainee program. Also, I could imagine some tongues wagging when pretty Tess Faraday asked if she could work with Detective Corey again. Like I don’t have enough problems at home or at 26 Fed.
    “John?
Do
you mind?”
    “The pleasure is all mine.”
    The Manorville exit to the Hamptons was coming up and the Expressway was about to end. The Mercedes signaled and took the exit.
    Tess followed, and Matt and Steve fell in behind us.
    The Mercedes turned south on Captain Daniel Roe Highway and we followed. Traffic was light, so the three vehicles, all in a neat row, looked like a caravan of friends heading to the beach.
    Tess commented, “We’ve been tailing these guys for over an hour and they don’t seem to care.”
    “They like being followed. Makes them feel important.”
    “They’re fucking up my day.”
    I was surprised at the unexpected obscenity. I pointed out, “This gives us quality training time together.”
    She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Grant expects me to meet him at JFK tomorrow morning.”
    “Worry about it in the morning.”
    “I’ll text him when we see what’s happening here.”
    “Watch what you say.” I reminded her, “Whatever happens here stays here.”
    “Okay.” She seemed less worried and said, “I like that. I can’t say where I am because it’s top secret.”
    “Saves a lot of marriages.”
    She laughed.
    We continued for a few miles, then