The Associate Page 0,3

the last table, chatting with Plant and Ginyard, waiting. When Kyle made his slow approach, the agent glanced at him, then offered the standard smirk before sitting in the next booth. No. 4 was waiting there, sipping coffee. Plant and Ginyard had ordered sandwich platters with subs and fries and pickles, all of it untouched. The table was covered with food and cups of coffee. Plant climbed to his feet and moved around to the other side so that both agents could watch their victim. They were shoulder to shoulder, still in trench coats. Kyle slid into the booth.

The lighting was old and bad; the back corner was dark. Pinball racket mixed with a loud game on ESPN from the bartender's flat screen.

"It takes four?" Kyle asked, nodding over his shoulder at the booth behind him.

"That's just what you can see," Ginyard said.

"Would you like a sandwich?" Plant asked.

"No." An hour earlier he had been famished. Now his digestive system and his excretory system and his nervous system were on the verge of a meltdown. He was struggling to breathe normally as he desperately tried to appear unfazed. He removed a disposable pen and a note card, and with all the nerve he could summon, he said, "I'd like to see those badges again."

The responses were identical - disbelief, insulted, then oh-what-the-hell as they slowly reached into their pockets and extracted their most prized possessions. They laid them on the table, and Kyle selected Ginyard's first. He wrote down the full name - Nelson Edward Ginyard - then his agent number. He squeezed the pen hard and recorded the information carefully. His hand shook, but he thought it wasn't noticeable. He rubbed the brass emblem carefully, not sure what he was looking for but still taking his time. "Could I see a photo ID?" he asked.

"What the hell?" Ginyard growled.

"Photo ID, please."

"No."

"I'm not talking until I finish the preliminaries. Just show me your driver's license. I'll show you mine."

"We already have a copy of yours."

"Whatever. Let's have it."

Ginyard rolled his eyes as he reached for his back pocket. From a battered billfold he produced a Connecticut license with an ominous snapshot of himself. Kyle examined it and jotted down the birth date and license data. "That's worse than a passport photo," he said.

"You wanna see my wife and kids?" Ginyard said as he removed a color photo and tossed it on the table.

"No, thanks. Which office are you guys from?"

"Hartford," Ginyard said. He nodded at the next booth and said, "They're from Pittsburgh."

"Nice."

Kyle then examined Plant's badge and driver's license, and when he had finished, he pulled out his cell phone and began pecking.

"What are you doing?" Ginyard asked.

"I'm going online to check you out."

"You think we're posted on some nice little FBI Web site?" Plant said with a flash of anger. Both found it humorous. Neither seemed concerned.

"I know which site to check," Kyle said as he entered the address of a little-known federal directory.

"You won't find us," Ginyard said.

"This will take a minute. Where's that tape recorder?"

Plant produced a slender digital recorder the size of an electric toothbrush and flipped it on.

"Please give the date, time, and place," Kyle said with an air of confidence that surprised even him. "And please state that the interrogation has yet to begin and that no statements have been made before now.

"Yes, sir. I love law students," Plant said.

"You watch too much television," Ginyard said.

"Go ahead."

Plant situated the recorder in the center of the table, a pastrami and cheddar on one side and a smoked tuna on the other. He aimed his words at it and announced the preliminaries. Kyle was watching his phone, and when the Web site appeared, he entered the name of Nelson Edward Ginyard. A few seconds passed, and to the surprise of no one Agent Ginyard was confirmed as a field agent, FBI, Hartford. "You wanna see it?" Kyle asked, holding up the tiny screen.

"Congratulations," Ginyard shot back. "Are you satisfied now?"

"No. I'd prefer not to be here."

"You can leave anytime you want," Plant said.

"You asked for ten minutes." Kyle glanced at his wristwatch.

Both agents leaned forward, all four elbows in a row, the booth suddenly smaller. "You remember a guy named Bennie Wright, chief investigator, sex crimes, Pittsburgh PD?" Ginyard was talking, both were staring, watching every nervous twitch of Kyle's eyelids.

"No."

"You didn't meet him five years ago during the investigation?"

"I don't remember meeting a Bennie Wright. Could have, but