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was Mario.” Doug yawned hugely and took the mug of dark black liquid. He glared at it, scrubbed one blunt hand through sandy hair that got grayer and thinner every year, and sighed. He swallowed a gulp of coffee, grimaced, and swallowed more. “Thanks. I think.”
    “Those triple shifts will kill you,” Sam said, smiling slightly.
    “I took four hours off to sleep. Anything new?”
    Before Sam could mention his no-ID gem thief, the inner door of the suite opened and two men walked out.
    Ted Sizemore was the first. He moved with a confidence that was just short of a swagger. At sixty-three, with two successful careers under his belt, he’d earned the right. Unlike everyone else in the room, he was wearing a suit. The navy blue cloth had pinstripes so narrow they almost vanished. His shirt was white and crisp, his tie dark maroon with just the suggestion of diagonal navy stripes. His shoes were wing tips with a finish that could double as a shaving mirror. He might not carry FBI credentials anymore, but he hadn’t forgotten the old uniform.
    The second man was SSA Patrick Kennedy. More than a decade younger than Sizemore, Kennedy was one of the Legend’s biggest admirers. The fact that Kennedy had worked with Sizemore in the Bureau for about twenty years probably had something to do with it. The fact that Sizemore could conjure up the media with a snap of his fingers might have had a lot more. Positive media hits were as necessary for promotion as investigative and bureaucratic skills. Kennedy’s next career hike was riding on the outcome of the crime strike force he oversaw. Sizemore was a great unofficial asset, just as the FBI was a great unofficial asset for the Legend’s security business.
    Sam drank more coffee and wondered if one hand ever got tired of washing the other. He chewed his last peanut butter and cheese cracker, washed it down with more coffee, and waited for someone to pull his finger out and start the whole time-wasting dance.
    Meetings sucked.
    Sizemore opened a bottle of beer, scooped up a big handful of pretzels from the nearby bowl, and settled into the best chair in the suite, which just happened to be within reach of the goodies. His love of food in general and beer in particular showed in his belly and his jawline. He wasn’t at the triple-chin stage yet, but he was headed there.
    “Hey, Ted, good to see you,” Doug said. “Heard you had a rough flight out from L.A.”
    “They don’t build the damn planes the way they used to,” Sizemore said, shifting his weight more comfortably in the overstuffed chair. “Don’t fly ’em as good either.” He took a drink and shrugged. “We arrived rubber side down. These days that’s all you can ask for.”
    Doug and Sizemore traded bad flight stories while the politically adept among the strike force laughed and offered their own horror stories. Sam didn’t think having to stay in cheap quarters at a hotel—even though his own apartment was only half an hour away from the action—qualified as a horror story. Kennedy wanted everyone to travel and sleep and work together. What Kennedy wanted, he got.
    Good thing I don’t even have a pet rock, Sam thought. Sure enough, it would be against FBI regs .
    Sam wondered if his stomach could take more coffee. The burning in his gut told him the answer. Maybe Sizemore had a point with the beer. If nothing else, it was cheaper than the bottled water the hotel so thoughtfully left out with a six dollar price tag around its neck.
    The tap water tasted lousy, but it was free. Sam headed for the bathroom. By the time he’d drunk one mug of lukewarm tap water and gone back for a refill, Kennedy had pulled out a notebook and was getting down to business. Standing a few feet behind Sizemore, Sharon took notes by murmuring into a tiny microphone whose head was hidden in her thick, chin-length brown hair. The tiny recording device was invisible behind her ear. She was dressed in a business suit and low heels,