“No. He wouldn’t say.”

“Did he tell you enough to let you guess?”

“No.” McGuire looked edgy, like a man being forced to play Twenty Questions with his twelve-year-old son. “He disguised his voice. I’ve told you all I know.”

“It’s not much.”

It was intended as a statement of fact. But McGuire took it as criticism. His eyes bored in. “We can’t let this go. Lasko’s controversial. If I don’t check this out and then get caught with my pants down, I’ll have to answer over on the Hill.” McGuire was using his usual institutional “I.” The motive had a tired familiarity. “This thing has to be done carefully. No wild charges and no one pissed off. And I want a report on every new development.”

I nodded. McGuire leaned back, hands folded on his belly, taking in Feiner with a tight smile. The smile looked like an invisible hand was stretching his mouth sideways at both ends. “Now,” McGuire was holding school, “what are you going to do?”

My three years made the question insulting. McGuire knew it; he was reminding Feiner that he could make me do tricks. I wondered if I should roll over and beg or stick my paw out to shake hands. “What are you going to do?” he demanded again.

“I’m going to call up Lasko and ask him to confess.”

McGuire’s reaction was surprisingly mild. “Seriously.”

I selected a civil answer. “Seriously, I’ll get trading data from the major brokerage houses in New York to see who’s been buying and selling Lasko Devices stock and when. I’ll have our local office-Lasko’s in Boston, I think-lay a subpoena on the company for trading data. If any stock trades look strange, I’ll haul in the trader for questioning. And I’ll check the stock’s price history in the Journal.”

McGuire’s rubber smile restretched, this time for me. “While you were out of town, I had Ike”-he gestured at Feiner with his thumb-“get out a subpoena to Lasko Devices. They are in Boston. Jim Robinson has checked the Journal and gotten the trading records. And I’ve asked Central Records to send you the Lasko file.”