She had forgotten my name. She looked at me now with the cool appraising air of a scientist touring a dog pound, searching for experimental subjects. I hoped she would pass me up.

“Now you’re who?”

“I’m Christopher Paget.”

She nodded briskly. “OK, I’d appreciate it if you would come by my office this afternoon.” It was not a request. The Chairman was becoming a palpable presence.

“I’ll be sure and do that,” I said dryly.

McGuire shifted uncomfortably and looked through the ceiling at the Chairman’s office, four stories up. The girl made a quick mental calculation and decided to overlook it. “I’ll call you to set up a time.”

I nodded. She looked at me a split-second more, then turned back to McGuire. She spoke with more assurance, as if knowing that my annoyance signaled McGuire’s compliance. “Anything surrounding Lasko is very delicate. The Chairman wants to clear investigative steps before they happen. He’s concerned that this case not hurt the agency.” Her eyes flashed to me. “We have to keep out of trouble.” I figured she intended to keep me well out of trouble. I kept silent, and made a mental reservation about the frequency of my reports.

McGuire was nodding for me. “Chris will keep in touch. Is there anything else we can do?” His solicitous voice still seemed to waft upwards.

“Not now.” Ms. Carelli knew when to get off stage. She rose quickly. “Thank you for your time.” She swept us with a quick, obligatory smile, and let herself out. The closing door cut off the last probe of the black eyes, looking at me.

“Terrific,” I said, to no one in particular.

McGuire turned. “Just what’s your problem?”

“Other than Typhoid Mary?” It might as well be now, I thought. “The Hartex case. This one is starting like Hartex ended up.”