Sometimes, she’d think for hours, but when she stopped thinking, she’d know what the hell was going on. Then she’d explain it all in the case conference. She’d make it all sound easy and logical, like there was no way anybody could be in any kind of doubt about it. She was a woman who made progress. She was a woman who made her fellow agents feel better on those commuter trains at night. That’s what was making her popular.

Fourth person into the third-floor meeting room was the agent assigned to help Holly out with the fetching and carrying until she recovered from her soccer injury. His name was Milosevic. A slight frame, a slight West Coast accent. Less than forty, casually dressed in expensive designer khaki, gold at his neck and on his wrist. He was also a new arrival, recently transferred in to the Chicago office, because that was where the Bureau found it needed its financial people. He joined the line for coffee and looked around the room.

“She’s late?” he said.

The lawyer shrugged at him and Milosevic shrugged back. He liked Holly Johnson. He had worked with her five weeks, since the accident on the soccer field, and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

“She’s not usually late for anything,” he said.

Fifth person in was Brogan, Holly’s section head. Irish, from Boston via California. The young side of middle age. Dark hair, red Irish face. A tough guy, handsomely dressed in an expensive silk jacket, ambitious. He’d come to Chicago the same time as Milosevic, and he was pissed it wasn’t New York. He was looking for the advancement he was sure he deserved. There was a theory that Holly’s arrival in his section was enhancing his chances of getting it.

“She not here yet?” he said.

The other four shrugged at him.

“I’ll kick her ass,” Brogan said.

Holly had been a stock analyst on Wall Street before applying to join the FBI. Nobody was clear why she’d made the change.