Coburg was still standing. He wiped his hands on his pants, yawned and stretched. Early thirties, six one, two hundred. Pear shaped, fair haired, arms slightly too short for his long-waisted body. His hair was brass colored, worn full at the sides with no sideburns. He had a soft face, fine features, and rosy cheeks, had probably been a beautiful baby.

He wore a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, loosened paisley tie five years too narrow, rumpled khakis, saddle shoes. The laces on one shoe were untied.

Stretching again, he sat, picked up his phone, and began dialing. Most of the other lawyers were on the phone now. The room sounded like a giant switchboard.

I walked over to him. His eyebrows rose as I sat down, but he didn't show any signs of annoyance. Probably used to walk-ins.

He said, “Listen, gotta go,” into the phone. “What's that? Fine—I accept that, just as long as we have a clear understanding, okay? What? . . . No, I've got someone here. Okay. Bye. Cheers.”

He hung up and said, “Hi, how can I help you?” in a pleasant voice. His tie was clipped with an unusual bit of jewelry: red guitar pick glued to a silver bar.

I told him who I was and that I was trying to locate any friends of Dorsey Hewitt.

“Dorsey. One of my triumphs,” he said, all the pleasantness gone. He sat back, crossed his legs. “So what paper do you work for?”

“I'm a psychologist. Just like I said.”

He smiled. “Really?”

I smiled back. “Scout's honor.”

“And a police consultant, too.”

“That's right.”

“You don't mind if I see some ID, do you?”

I showed him my psych license, my med school faculty card, and my old LAPD consultant's tag.

“The police,” he said, as if he still couldn't believe it. “Is that a problem for you?”

“In what way?”

“Working with the police mentality? All that intolerance—the authoritarianism.”

“Not really,” I said. “Police officers vary, like anyone else.”

“That hasn't been my experience,” he said. There was a jar of licorice sticks near his typewriter. He took one and held out the container.

“No, thanks.”

“High blood pressure?”

“No.”

“Licorice raises it,” he said, chewing. “Mine tends to be low. I'm not saying they're intrinsically bad—the police. I'm sure most of them start out as okay human beings. But the job corrupts—too much power, too little accountability.”

“I guess the same could be said for doctors and lawyers.”

He smiled again. “That's no comfort.” The smile stayed on his face, but it began to look out of place. “So. Why does a police consultant need to know anything about Dorsey's friends?”

I gave him the same explanation I'd offered Jean Jeffers.