The callback came at nine-forty, which told Dominic Vale most of what he needed to know before he answered.
Federal offices closed at five. People who called back at nine-forty were either very conscientious or calling from a car, away from a desk where the line was recorded. Ines Whitlow had never been conscientious in the eleven years he'd known her. She'd been useful, which was rarer.
He let it ring twice. He was in the faculty apartment on the cliff side of the Summit complex, sitting in the dark with his shoes off and a fourth cup of coffee going cold on the arm of the chair. The window looked down on the residential towers. Lights in about half of them. Building C, fifth floor: one window lit, then dark, then lit again, as if someone in there had no idea what time it was.
He picked up.
"Ines."
"You owe me lunch somewhere with tablecloths." Road noise behind her. A turn signal. "I asked."
"And."
