Note: There will not be an update next week because I'll be out of town (I feel like I've been doing that a lot), so I'll see you all the week after!

"You think it's like the Washington D.C. version of driving a lifted truck?"

"I don't think you could actually fit this in a truck. They've one-upped the truck."

Tim and Raylan regard the floor to ceiling portrait with unconcealed disdain. A passerby might think they'd just crossed paths with the town mental case exposing himself in public, unsurprised yet still disgusted with the display. The receptionist in her pleated, high collar blouse and thick-rimmed glasses that are for show instead of function casts a judgmental look at the two, like the dick-stroking monstrosity of a painting deserves more reverence.

"You ever seen American Psycho?"

"We've all met Boyd Crowder, Raylan."

"No, I mean I bet it's like the business card thing. Yours has to be better than everyone else's. It's just a fad that got out of control."

The law offices of Chadwick and Thompson sit at the top of an upscale building in the West End. It's uptight upscale though, not the fun sort that wears basketball shorts and cooks fancy Italian or gets adorably tipsy on wine over dinner. Everything from the dark leather and wood furnishings to the over the top décor is meant to impress, to intimidate. It's a lot of bark, which for Tim is unimpressive without the bite, and he makes a game of tallying up all the Freudian symbols of compensation he can find.

"Mr. Wicket will see you now." The receptionist gives them one last glance of disapproval as she ushers them down a thickly carpeted hallway. Tim's first thought is that murdering someone would be easy here. The floor's so soft you'd never hear the body fall. He wonders if Miss Priss with the fake glasses has ever tripped over her big high heels walking through here.

Like the reception area, Joseph Wicket's office embodies the same soulless sterility, no family photos, just diplomas and awards. Wicket himself stands in contrast to the somber atmosphere. He greets Tim and Raylan with the wide, slick smile of a man confident in his own shoes. After he waves them into chairs across from his desk Wicket takes his own, reclined and relaxed, an attitude of polite condescension studiously applied to his expression. It's the sort of asshole vibe that says 'I'm better than you, but aren't I great for letting you sit at the table.' He reminds Tim of a chaplain in Fort Benning who always took himself too seriously, and Tim leans back comfortably, a foot casually resting on his knee like he's the one who ought to be sitting on the other side of the desk.

Wicket's eyes flick once over them both, and Tim stares back, waiting. He might not like pissing contests, but he doesn't lose them. The first question is directed at Raylan with an air of mildly interested confusion. "What can I do for you gentlemen? We generally handle business matters, not the sort of things you'd expect to find the Marshals involved in."

Tim answers, ploughing through the bullshit and straight to the point. "What business did you have with Mason Kimball?"

Wicket's brows come down, confusion deepening, but nonetheless unconcerned. "I'm afraid I don't know who that is. He's not on our client list."

Raylan pulls out the still taken from a KSP surveillance camera, the one of Wicket at the prison, and slides it across the desk. "Ring a bell?"

He passes it back towards them. "That's a bit grainy, deputy."

"Good enough for the FBI to identify you."

"And when was I supposed to have been visiting this Mr. Kimball? And also why? As I said, we handle taxes and business deals; we're not a defense firm."

"Kimball said eight days ago you coerced him into murdering his cellmate, Robert Gates. Why would you do that?"

Mr. Wicket looks amused at the idea. "That would be a Saturday, which means I definitely couldn't have been there because I was at the Smithsonian gala that night. Plenty of witnesses and plenty of photos."

"This footage was taken in the early afternoon. That's plenty of time to get back and go to a gala."

"So you think," Wicket nods his head from side to side as if muddling through a hard problem, "that I flew all the way to Kentucky to meet with an inmate – this Mason Kimball – to make sure he killed his cellmate, and then I flew back in time to go to a gala dinner so I'd have an alibi?"

Raylan grins. "Hey look at that, he's starting to catch on."

"Maybe if he'd gone to Harvard instead of Yale, he'd have caught on faster."

"I don't even know a Robert Gates. Why would I want some random hillbilly who I've never heard of killed?"

"Maybe if the shit came out of your ass instead of your mouth people would be inclined to believe you," Tim says evenly, "See what I was curious about was why you bothered with the knife. You could have just made him strangle Gates in his sleep or something. Would have been a lot easier, left less of a trail." This is the first point in the conversation that seems to have Wicket stumped.

"Vulgar language is the sign of a weak mind, deputy."

"So is planning a murder based on the movies. A shiv isn't the only way to kill someone in prison. Then again, what do I know. I'm just some hillbilly from Kentucky."

"Gentlemen." Wicket says it the way cops say 'sir.' "I have more pressing matters to attend to today, and as you have zero evidence to back up the outrageous claims you've made, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Tim makes sure to smile real wide and friendly on his way out. "So if we had more evidence, you'd ask us to stay?"

He gets a thin, unamused nose wrinkle. Tim decides the best thing about leaving the military is getting to be as ornery as you want to anyone you want without fear of disciplinary action.

"Well that was fun," says Raylan once they're waiting for the elevator. "You think all lawyers are dicks?"

"I dunno. Between your divorce and shootin' everyone who bothers you, I feel like you'd be more qualified to answer that than me."

"Are all ex-Rangers dicks?"

Tim ignores the jibe. "You notice how Wicket was the only one who put Kimball in Kentucky?"

"Yeah, we never said that. Interesting coincidence there, huh?"

The elevator dings, but Tim holds out his arm to block the way. "Well?"

"Well what?" Raylan slides his hands along the brim of his hat, raising a brow. For Raylan, the innocent act is a transparent veneer over mischief.

"Well are you gonna do the thing?"

"The thing?"

"Yeah, the thing where I say 'Oh no, don't be a dumbass' and you say 'It's fine, what could possibly go wrong' and then you do whatever dumbass thing you're thinking of doing right now."

"Why do I sound like a prepubescent teenager in this scenario? And seeing as I'm not doing anything aside from thinking about lunch, I resent that implication."

"And I resent all the time I'll never get back from chasing you through Harlan."

"You gonna make awkward comments about your erection?"

"If I get one. You gonna do it or not?"

Raylan sets his hat back on his head. "Does it feel warm in here to you?"

First rule of improvisation is agreement. "Like a whore's crotch in church."

"That's disgusting."

"I'm just trying to be supportive."

"Go do it somewhere else." Raylan takes a step to the side and casually rams his elbow into the fire alarm.

o.O.o

They wait in the elevator bay until everyone is out and down the stairs before making their way back to Wicket's office.

"Shit it's locked." Either Wicket kept his file cabinets locked all the time or he'd done so before he'd left his office.

"Great plan, Gutterson."

Tim grabs a couple paperclips out of a desk drawer and twists them into a usable shape. "You could be more supportive." He jiggles the paperclips around until the lock clicks and the drawer slides outward.

"Shit you think you could do that with Art's safe?" They each pick a drawer and start rifling through folders.

"You got a death wish or something?"

"The Pappy's worth it."

"I'll drink some at your funeral."

"Hey, I got something." Raylan hefts a thick file out and opens it on the desk. "Lena and Art were talking about Senator Stratford nosing around looking for Sayeed."

Tim pulls his phone out and starts snapping photos of each page as fast as he can. "It's paperwork for a trust fund."

He's about to put down his phone and keep searching when Raylan turns the page and lets out a whistle. "Huge fuckin' trust fund. You got an erection yet?"

"There's no need to be crass, Raylan. It's a sign of a weak mind." Tim snaps another photo. "Nine million a year? You think he's looking to adopt?"

"Maybe. Kid doesn't even have the same last name. What do you think? Illegitimate child?"

Tim shrugs. "He is a senator."

Somewhere down the hall a door slams, and the two Marshals take their cue to get the hell out of dodge.