At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of automation of the streets. He left his car in the departmental lot and took a cab.
The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive section of an impressive governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett's office which was all but a duplicate of his own in size and decor.
Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford, barring facial resemblance alone. The fact was, Steve was almost Lincolnesque in his ugliness. Career man, about thirty, good university, crew cut, six foot, one hundred and seventy, earnest of eye. He wore Harris tweed. Larry Woolford made a note of that; possibly herringbone was coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his wardrobe; it'd cost a fortune.
They'd worked on a few cases together before when Steve Hackett had been assigned to the presidential bodyguard and co-operated well.
Steve came to his feet and shook hands. “Thought that you were going to be down in Florida bass fishing this month. You like your work so well you can't stay away, or is it a matter of trying to impress your chief?”
Larry growled, “Fine thing. Secret Service bogs down and they've got to call me in to clean up the mess.”
Steve motioned him to a chair and immediately went serious. “Do you know anything about pushing queer, Woolford?”
“That means passing counterfeit money, doesn't it? All I know is what's in the TriD crime shows.”
“I can see you're going to be a lot of help. Have you got anywhere at all on the possibility that the stuff might be coming from abroad?”