"Well, he can set up a kind of assembly-line process and turn out a car every fifteen minutes. Any better?" Boyd nodded. "Good," Malone said. "There can't be so many 1972 red Cadillacs in the area that we can't get through them all at that speed." He thought a minute and then added, "By the way, you might check with the Cadillac dealers around town, and find out just how many have been sold to people living in the area." "And while I'm doing all that," Boyd said, "what are you going to be doing?" Malone looked at him and sighed. "I'll worry about that," he said. "Just get started." "Suppose Leibowitz can't find anything?" Boyd said. "If Leibowitz can't find it, it's not there," Malone said. "He can find electronic devices anywhere in any car made, he says--even if they're printed circuits hidden under the paint job." "Pretty good," Boyd said. "But suppose he doesn't?" "Then they aren't there," Malone said, "and we'll have to think of something else." He considered that. It sounded fine. Only he wished he knew what else there was to think of. Well, that was just pessimism. Leibowitz would find something, and the case would be over, and he could go back to Washington and rest. In August he was going to have his vacation anyway, and August wasn't very far away. Malone put a smile carefully on his face and told Boyd, "Get going." He slammed his hat on his head. Wincing, he took it off and replaced it gently. The bottle of pills was still in his pocket, but he wasn't due for another one just yet. He had time to go over to the precinct station in the West Eighties first. He headed outside to get another taxi. 4 The door didn't say anything at all except _Lt. P. Lynch_. Malone looked at it for a couple of seconds. He'd asked the desk sergeant for Lynch, shown his credentials and been directed up a set of stairs and around a hall. But he still didn't know what Lynch did, who he was, or what his name was doing in the little black notebook. Well, he told himself, there was only one way to find out. He opened the door. The room was small and dark. It had a single desk in it, and three chairs, and a hatrack. There wasn't any coat or hat on the hatrack, and there was nobody in the chairs. In a fourth chair, behind the desk, sat a huskily built man. He had steel-gray hair, a hard jaw and, Malone noticed with surprise, a faint twinkle in his eye. "Lieutenant Lynch?" Malone said. "Right," Lynch said. "What's the trouble?" "I'm Kenneth J. Malone, FBI." He reached for his wallet and found it. He flipped it open for Lynch, who stared at it for what seemed a long, long time, and then burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" Malone asked. Lynch laughed some more. "Oh, come on," Malone said bitterly. "After all, there's no reason to treat an FBI agent like some kind of a--"