It took him a moment to answer. “No, I’m not asserting jurisdiction,” he said.

“Good,” Sanchez said. “In that case, I’d appreciate it if you’d clear out until my people are done. I’ll get you a report as soon as one is ready, but until then, I have control over the crime scene, and I can’t have my people working with someone looking over their shoulders.”

“Detective Sanchez, I’m a special agent with the FBI,” Hewitt began in protest. She cut him off.

“So was John Connolly, and he’s still got three years left in supermax out at Allenwood for tipping off Whitey Bulger and his mob, right? For years, your federal boys ran interference for these guys whenever we tried to put them away, so you’ll pardon me if the ‘Special Agent’ mystique doesn’t cut a whole lot of shit with me. I’ll keep you informed as appropriate, but I need you out so we can do our job. Either that or you take the lead yourself. Which is it gonna be?”

Hewitt put his glasses back on. “I’ll expect a full report, complete with pictures, by the end of the day,” he said.

“You can expect whatever you want,” Sanchez replied. “No skin off my nose.”

Hewitt stood there for a moment, then walked past them, out toward the front door to the garage.

“Cocksucker,” McAfee said under his breath as he watched Hewitt walk out of the Body Shop.

“Maybe he’s just doing his job,” Stone offered.

“Maybe,” Sanchez said. “I’m not taking any chances, though. We have a job to do, too. And I don’t want the feds fucking up one of my cases.” She looked at McAfee. “Let’s get to it. What are we looking at?”

“You want to look at Bags first?” he asked.

“Should we?”

McAfee gave a gesture falling somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “He’s a good warm-up. He’s in better shape than Vinny.” He pointed over into a corner behind a tool rack. Sanchez moved in that direction and Stone followed.