"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thin air. All this nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense," Malone said.
"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day like that. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was
as hard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with those impossible robberies you had me looking up?"
"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it."
Fernack's face had begun its slow climb toward purple again. "Malone," he said, "if you're suppressing evidence, even if you are the FBI, I'll—"
"I'm not suppressing any evidence," Malone said. "I don't think you could prove a connection. I don't think I could prove a connection. I don't think anybody could—not right now."
Fernack leaned back, apparently mollified.
"John Henry," Malone said, "I want to ask you to keep your hands off this case. To let me handle it my way."
Fernack nodded absently. "Sure, Malone," he said.