“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.