“You know how I feel about flying first class,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I got over $400 back.”

“So keep the money as a bonus and spend it on yourself, then.”

“It’ll go back to the foundation,” I said, “as always.”

He exhaled slowly, but I could tell he wasn’t exasperated, merely baffled. There were things I had no qualms spending money on—such as a good suit or a nice pair of shoes, because they were essential to the image the foundation wanted me to present. But to me, it always seemed silly to fly first class when coach was available. Either one got you where you were going, and wasn’t that the point anyway?

“So tell me about our friends in Chicago,” Tom said. “Were they pleased with our little contribution?”

I sat back in my seat and described their reaction, enjoying the vicarious pleasure Tom received from my description, wondering for the hundredth time why he didn’t simply show up to deliver the money himself.

“As I was leaving,” I said, “they got a phone call from a nearby hospital. Seems there was a 91-year-old woman who had been living with her son, but the son had died and the hospital didn’t know what to do with the woman.”

“Sounds like a case for social services.”

“Social services was trying to locate a nursing home for her. But within five minutes Transition Resources had dispatched a counselor to go to the hospital and stay with the woman while they waited, and they even sent a volunteer worker over to her house to see about her cat.”

“Nice.”

“They’re good people, Tom. You did a wonderful thing.”

“As did you.”

We chatted a little longer about nothing, really, the way we did sometimes. I always pictured Tom as a Quasimodo-type, alone in a vast castle, the world at his fingertips, but his life a somberly empty place. Of course, that image was probably way off. For all I knew, he was a dashing jet-setter with a gorgeous woman on each arm and a fancy home on every continent.

“Well, now that this case is closed, I have a different sort of assignment for you,” Tom said finally. “This one is a bit of a departure from your regular routine.”

“Oh?”

“The place is called Feed the Need. It’s a worldwide hunger relief organization based in Philadelphia. I want you to make a delivery there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I said loudly. A woman looked at me from across the aisle, and I lowered my voice. “You don’t want me to check them out first?”

“The founder is an old friend of mine,” Tom said. “Wendell Smythe. A wonderful man. I have no doubt his operation is everything it claims to be.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look—”

“The problem is that their need is fairly pressing. Seems that they want to put a bid in on a building that’s up for auction, and they need a quick $250,000. I see no reason to delay.”