By the time my attendant had brought me back to my room, I was drowsy and ready for sleep. It was not meant to be, however: I found Ron Kappelman sitting in the visitor’s chair. He put away a folder of papers when he saw me and offered me a pot of geraniums.

“You sure seem better today than I would’ve believed twenty-four hours ago,” he said soberly. “I’m most sorry I didn’t take your neighbor seriously—I just assumed something important had come up and you’d taken off. I still can’t figure out how he bullied me into driving him all the way down there.”

I slid back into bed and lay down. “Mr. Contreras is a little excitable, at least about my well-being, but I’m not exactly in the mood to fight it today. You find anything out about that insurance report? Or why Jurshak was appointed the fiduciary?”

“You look as though you should be convalescing, not worrying about a bunch of old files,” he said disapprovingly.

“Has their status changed? Tuesday you were pretty excited about them. What turned them into old files?” Lying down wasn’t a good idea—I kept drifting. I cranked the bed so I could sit up.

“The way you looked when that old man dragged you up to the fence. They didn’t seem worth that much trouble.”

I scanned his face for signs of menace or lies or something. All he showed was manly concern. What did that prove?

“Is that why I was dumped into the marsh? Because of the report to Mariners Rest?”

He looked startled. “I guess I assumed—because we’d talked about them and then you didn’t show up for our meeting.”

“You tell anyone about my having that letter, Kappelman?”

He leaned forward in his chair, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’m beginning to dislike the turn this conversation is taking, Warshawski. Are you trying to imply that I had anything to do with what happened to you yesterday?”

This made the third well-wisher whose mind I’d changed within minutes of entering the room. “I’m trying to make sure that you didn’t. Look, Ron, all I know about you is that you had a brief fling with an old friend of mine. That doesn’t tell me anything—I mean, I was once married to a guy I wouldn’t trust with a kid’s piggy bank. All it proves is that hormones are stronger than brains.

“I talked to you and to one other person about those documents. If they’re the reason I was dumped into that swamp yesterday—and that’s a big question mark—because I just don’t know—it had to be because of one of you guys.”

He made a sour face. “Okay. I guess I can buy that—just. I don’t know how to convince you I didn’t hire those thugs—other than on my honor as a Boy Scout. I was one once, thirty years ago or so. Will you take that as evidence of probity?”

“I’ll take it into account.” I lowered the bed again—I was too tired to try to push him any further. “They’re springing me tomorrow. Want to try again on these papers?”