In the Company of Liars by David Ellis Page A

afraid he might squeal on them? That’s it?”
    â€œI think it could be convincing,” she says.
    â€œNo, you don’t.” The heat comes to Larry’s face. “No, you don’t. You have names and you won’t give them.” He drills a finger on the table. “I think you know, Allison. I think you know and you won’t say. And I don’t get that. I have no idea what’s going on.”
    Allison smiles at him weakly.
    You certainly don’t , she thinks to herself. And she will never tell him.

ONE DAY EARLIER
SATURDAY, MAY 1
    J ane McCoy looks over the expansive office of the FBI’s special agent-in-charge for the city’s field office. The desk is oak, large and polished like a military spit-shine, reflecting the ceiling lights. The carpet is blood-red. The bookshelves along the wall are immaculate, adorned with manuals and a few well-placed photographs. The guy wants to impress, he succeeded.
    Irving Shiels has been the SAC for eleven years here in the city, having served overseas before that. She has always gotten along well with Shiels. There is a mystique about him in the office, something unapproachable, the strut in his stride, the cold stare of those dark eyes, but she has been able to reach him on a personal level. A lot of people get tongue-tied around a boss. McCoy, for reasons she cannot explain, is just the opposite. She imagines it’s a rather solitary existence, running an office like this, and anyone in Irving Shiels’s position would appreciate the occasional joke or informality, provided it doesn’t cross the line. Awitty comment or personal anecdote can break the ice, and that is her forte. She remembers babbling to him on an internal elevator one day about one of her cases, an international child kidnapping case when she was new to the bureau, and realizing in retrospect that she had been doing all the talking. Shiels probably takes it for confidence, that someone like Jane McCoy could be so freewheeling around him. The truth is, McCoy is just a talker.
    â€œThe prosecution’s case ended yesterday,” McCoy says. “It’s everything we expected.”
    â€œRight. Read it in the Watch. Looks bad for her.” Shiels leans back in his chair, a scowl playing on his face. He rarely lightens up, never seems to err on that side. He’s the classic straight shooter. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t smile, either. “So what’s up next?” he asks.
    McCoy shifts in her chair. “Walter Benjamin is up next. The Flanagan-Maxx government guy.”
    â€œRight. Benjamin.”
    â€œI’ll be in the courtroom, sir. I’m sure it will be fine.”
    â€œI saw where the daughter testified.”
    â€œYes, sir. Jessica was the prosecution’s best witness.”
    Shiels runs a hand over his mouth. “I’ll bet she was. Okay.” He looks at the ceiling. “Tell me about the doctor.”
    McCoy sighs. “As far as we can tell—”
    â€œDon’t tell me ‘as far as we can tell,’ Agent. Tell me that we know exactly what is going to happen here.” A vein appears prominently in Shiels’s forehead. He is quick to heat, at least that’s what the other agents say. McCoy has never seen an eruption firsthand. But she can tell just by looking at him. His skin is damaged, broken blood vessels on his cheeks, worry lines on his forehead, a worn mask that ages him beyond his fifty-four years. He wears the authority well, but the skin doesn’t lie. Stress will take its pound of flesh one way or the other.
    Sure, she understands. This is a career-maker or -breaker for both of them. But Jesus Christ, Shiels knows there arelimits to their surveillance of Doctor Lomas. They can’t infiltrate the lab and they can’t bug his house.
    â€œSir,” McCoy begins again, choosing her words with care, “Doctor Lomas is going about his business as