With all that had happened in the last hour or so, I’d completely forgotten about the retreat. “Okay,” I said. “Have there been any calls?”

“I guess. I’ve had a couple.”

“I mean for me.”

“Uh,” Paul said dozily, “I don’t think so.” Paul’s words seemed to be running together, ever so slightly.

“Were you asleep?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I paused. “Lawrence Jones didn’t call there by any chance, say he was going to be late?”

“Lawrence who?”

“The detective? The one I’ve been seeing every night this week? The one who took me to the car auction? The one who called earlier, and you took a message? Paul, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I am perfectly fine.” He worked hard to say “perfectly” perfectly. And the “I am” instead of “I’m” was a bit weird and Data-like. “Where are you?”

“At the doughnut place, a couple of blocks from Garvin. Listen, if Lawrence calls, have him call my cell.”

“Okay.” Sleepylike. Like maybe he’d had a few beers.

“Paul,” I said, “did you find what Trevor left for you out back?”

“Huh?” More awake now. “The what?”

“The six-pack. Sounds like you found it.”

“I don’t know—what?”

“He get your booze for you all the time?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Angie tell you—” And then he cut himself off, still sober enough to know that he was letting the cat out of the bag.

“We’re going to have a talk when I get home.”

Paul paused at the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea when that might be?”

“Probably not for a few hours. I’m sort of working right now.”

“Because I’m really tired, and going to bed, so if you’re going to ream me out, could you do it in the morning instead of when you get home?”

“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay. See ya, Dad.” And he hung up.

I shook my head as I hit the button to end my call. It was after eleven now. I tried Lawrence’s cell a third time, without success.

Maybe he was already in position, down the street from the men’s store. Maybe he’d gotten to the doughnut shop on time, waited a few minutes for me, and when I was a no-show, he’d left. After all, his responsibility was to Mr. Brentwood, the owner of the men’s shop, not me. He was doing me a favor letting me hang out with him; he didn’t owe me any consideration.