We sat for a few minutes quietly, watching cars go past Brentwood’s in both directions. The store window lights had been dimmed by half, casting soft shadows on half a dozen headless mannequins decked out in expensive menswear. “That where you get your stuff?” I asked. Lawrence was dressed in a pair of black slacks, a dark silk shirt, and a black sports jacket that I guessed cost more than everything I had in my closet at home.

“Sometimes. Brentwood promised me a new suit if I find out who’s been hitting his store, but now, after last night, I don’t know. It’s hard to feel we’ve been doing our job very well.”

“You got anyone else helping you, now that Miles is …” I hesitated, “gone?”

“No. Thing is, they’re not going to be hitting Maxwell’s now. Next most likely target is here.”

“Why aren’t the cops out here, too? After what happened last night?”

“They promised to take a run by, step up patrols. Speak of the devil.” A city police car approached, slowed as it went past Brentwood’s, then kept going. “But they haven’t got enough people to stake out every place that might get hit. So that’s why you and I are sitting here.”

Moments after the police car had disappeared, a red, lowered Honda Accord coupe with a set of flashy after-market wheels slowed as it drove by the store. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to make out who or how many were inside. “Anything?” I said.

Lawrence looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe. But we’re really looking for a truck or SUV. Maybe this guy’s a lookout, cases the place, then calls his buds. Can’t even see with the dark windows.” The Accord moved on. “Looked like just one guy, but I couldn’t be sure. It’s easy enough to remember, with the chrome rims, so if we see it again, might be worth checking out.” He had a notepad on his lap and scribbled something down.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Honda’s license plate,” he said. The guy was quick. I hadn’t even thought to look at the plate.

That reminded me to dig out my own reporter’s notepad, make a few notes. I scribbled “red Honda” and “waiting” and “doughnuts.”

“So, you were a cop,” I said.

Lawrence nodded. “Went on my own about three years ago, still have plenty of friends on the force. They send work my way, help me out when I need a license plate ID, that kind of thing, which I’ll be asking them for in the morning.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Lawrence kept looking out through the windshield, chewing on a bit of double chocolate, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of Brentwood’s. “Oh, I don’t know. Differences of opinion, I guess.” He paused. “Hello.”