By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Castillo, who sensed she was pulling Miller’s chain, said nothing. Miller shook his head, and then sat back on the seat and buckled his seat belt with a sure click.

She drove to the end of the block, made a left turn, and then almost immediately made another into a narrow alley splitting the block.

“It was the fifth house from the far end of the block,” she said, and Castillo saw her pointing and counting. She stopped the car.

“And there they are, Mr. Terrence Halloran and his charming wife, Mary-Elizabeth,” she said, indicating the Hallorans’ backyard.

Each of the row houses had a small backyard, with a fence separating it from its neighbors. The Halloran backyard had a small flower garden and a paved-with-gravel area with a gas charcoal grill, a round metal table, matching chairs, and a two-seater swing.

A stocky man in his fifties with unruly white hair was sitting on the swing with his feet up on one of the chairs. He was holding a can of beer and there was a cooler beside him. A plump woman with startlingly red hair sat at the table with what looked like a glass of iced tea.

Sergeant Schneider stopped the car and got out, and Castillo and Miller followed her.

There was a waist-high, chain-link fence separating the yard from the alley.

“Good afternoon,” Betty Schneider called from the gate in the fence. She took her identification folder from her purse and held it up. “I’m Sergeant Schneider.”

“What the hell do the cops want now?” Mary-Elizabeth Halloran said, unplea

santly.

“We’d like to talk to you, please,” Betty said.

“Go the hell away,” Mrs. Halloran said.

Well, Castillo thought, that explains that sarcastic “charming wife.” She’s dealt with this woman before.

Terrence Halloran got off the swing and walked to the fence, carrying his beer. He pulled the gate inward and motioned for them to enter.

“What now?” he asked.

“These gentlemen would like to ask a few questions, Mr. Halloran,” Betty said.

He took a closer look at them.

“You’re not cops, are you?”

“No, sir, we’re not,” Castillo said.

“I already talked too much to the goddamned FBI,” he said.

“We’re not the FBI,” Castillo said. “We’re from the Department of Homeland Security.”

He gave Halloran a calling card, taking long enough to read it to confirm Castillo’s first impression that Halloran was well into a second six-pack of Budweiser. Then Halloran made a “follow me” gesture and walked to the table, where he handed the card to his wife.

“Homeland Security, he says.”

“Talk to them if you haven’t learned your lesson,” she said. “I won’t.”

“Okay,” Halloran said. “Make it quick. I have a busy schedule.”

He sat down on the swing.

“Sir,” Miller said, “I don’t think Captain MacIlhenny voluntarily disappeared with the missing aircraft.”

“The goddamned FBI thinks he put it on autopilot on a course that would take it out to sea and then jumped out the rear door,” Halloran said. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“I don’t think that’s the case, sir,” Miller said,