“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“The FBI called our office in a panic, trying to find out who you are. According to the FBI, you apparently visited a Mrs. Kalakos this morning.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t be cute, it’s unbecoming.”

“How are they so certain it was me?”

“How are they certain? Let me count the ways. First, they took a picture of you from the surveillance van. Then, while you were inside, they found your car and ran your license plate. Then they traced a cell-phone call that had sent a team of uniforms to check on their stakeout.”

“Oh.”

“What are you up to, Carl?”

“Nothing, really. I’m as innocent as a lamb.”

“Why do I suspect that you are lying?”

“You had a difficult childhood, you never learned to trust.”

“What did you and the old lady talk about?”

“Attorney-client privilege prohibits me from disclosing the details of my conversation with Mrs. Kalakos.”

Pause. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“But I would be interested in hearing what you know about her son.”

“Charlie the Greek?”

“No need to start throwing around derogatory ethnic labels, Larry.”

“That’s his name in the gang. Charlie the Greek.”

“Gang?”

“The Warrick Brothers Gang. You ever hear of it?”

“No.”

“A local crew, named for its leaders, two psychopathic icemen.”

“Icemen?”

“Jewel thieves. They were quite sophisticated, responsible for a plague of robberies and burglaries, including a series of spectacular jewelry heists from upscale mansions running from Newport, Rhode Island, to Miami Beach. They were stationed here and in Camden, which is why they were on our radar.”

“They still around?”

“The brothers are out of commission, one is dead, the other in prison in Camden. But there are still some members floating around that are active in all kinds of criminal activities in the Northeast part of the city. We can’t seem to put them away.”