into the pocket of her coat, pulled out a business card and handed it to me.
“Special Agent Cindy Morris. Columbus FBI. Nice-looking dog.”
I looked down. Hopalong had nosed his way beside me and was gazing with interest at a squirrel across the street.
I said, “The last government I tried overthrowing was a bunch of clowns on middle school student council. Promise.”
“We know,” she said, her face straight. Then, reading mine, she added, “Kidding.”
“So I owe the pleasure to?”
“Possible for me to come in?”
Inviting an FBI agent into my home was about the last thing I wanted to do, especially after last night. But sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
“Nice house,” she said when we entered the kitchen.
I ignored compliment number 2. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but could you please state your business?” Without asking, I started making coffee. Maybe the caffeine would help my headache.
“Doug Freeley,” she said. “You’ve been talking to him. Why?”
I measured two scoops of whole beans into the grinder and hit the start button. I let it go for twenty seconds or so, then raised my thumb off the button.
I said, “I think this is where I’m supposed to say, ‘Who told you that?’ or, ‘Suppose I have been?’” I filled the Mr. Coffee carafe with six cups of water and carefully poured it into the coffee maker. “But I’ll skip that part and go straight to ‘So?’”
“So that’s of interest to us.”
“That’s nice,” I said. I turned the coffee on. I waited.
“We were just wondering what you might be talking to him about.”
“That’s annoying when you do that,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Talk like the queen. ‘That’s of interest to us. We were just wondering.’ You have an opinion of your own on this, Special Agent Morris?”
She studied my face. I studied hers. She had thick black hair pulled back with a plain black scrunchie, simple gold stud earrings, and the faintest traces of makeup. No glasses, but I was betting contacts. She was athletic looking, and if I had to guess, I’d say she played something like soccer or lacrosse when she was younger.
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’m interested in knowing why you’re talking to Doug Freeley.”
“That’s more like it,” I said. “It’s none of your business.”
She smiled.
I said, “Anything else we can help you with today?”
She smiled again. “No interest in making this easy, Andy?”
“Since I don’t have any idea what we’re really talking about here, no, I guess not. Care to elaborate?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, then.”
“But we, that is to say, I am willing to make a small exception in your case.”
“Nice of you.” I opened the cupboard and examined my collection of coffee mugs. After deliberating a moment, I chose a commemorative DEA mug for myself and a similar ATF mug for my guest.
“Take anything in it?” I said.
“Black is fine,” she said.
She continued, “This isn’t rocket science, Andy. I’m guessing you know where Doug Freeley works. You can probably figure out why we might have an interest in him. And conversely, why we’re interested in why a private detective is talking to him.”
“Freeley works for American Financial Health Care. He does something with health care companies and bills. He lives in a darn nice house in New Albany, just like a zillion other white-collar success stories. What am I missing?”
“Other than why you were at his house the other day, I’m not sure.”
I took a slug of coffee, burning my tongue in the process. But my head felt better almost as soon as the coffee went down my throat. “Back to my original answer,” I said. “But since you’ve been nice enough to pay me a house call, I’ll throw in a bonus response: it has nothing to do with American Financial.”
She sipped her own coffee. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe what you want,” I said. “It’s the truth.”
“So it’s pure coincidence that our, ah, my interest in Doug Freeley dovetails at almost the exact same time with your interest in him?”
“First of all, I’m guessing that your interest predates mine. Secondly, I have zero interest in Doug Freeley. I did talk to him recently, as your predator drones detected, and while I can’t promise it was our last conversation, it may have been our second-to-last. He’s tangentially connected to a case I’m working on, and he’s certainly not the object of my investigation. For extra credit, I’ll add that his son is involved in the case. And that’s way, way more than I have any obligation to tell you.”
“Tangentially,” she said.
“Triple word score,” I said. “You can look it up.”
“What happened to you, anyway?” she said, gesturing at my face.
“I had a disagreement with someone.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“I got mugged last night.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll live to investigate another day.”
She took another sip of coffee. “I was hoping we could work together. Maybe cooperate.”
“Really,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“I was hoping you could tell me your interest in Doug, and that might help what we’re doing. And I do mean, we.”
“Sounds like a one-way street. What do I get out of this cooperation?”
“The satisfaction of helping your government?”
I laughed out loud.
“How about, a subpoena-free week?” But she was smiling, sort of, as she said it.
“If that’s the way you want to play it, be my guest.”
“It’s not. But my options are dwindling.”
“I’m not sure I agree.”
“No?”
