I stared out the window at the apartment building across the street. Sometimes a few of the blinds were open and I got a show—today no dice. Deek’s was three doors down at the corner. If I craned my neck just so, I could barely make out the front door. My building, the one I owned and lived in, was four blocks farther south, two blocks north. Living so close was one of the benefits of renting space here. The four-story building wasn’t much otherwise. It was old, temperamental, and the plumbing iffy, but I could walk or ride my bike to work. Plus, from this exact spot, I could smell hot food sizzling on Deek’s griddle.

There was a dentist across the hall from me—Dr. Gupta—whose drill often set my teeth on edge, but even that wasn’t enough to get me looking for better digs. I was a nester, and once I found a nest I liked, I tended to stay put. I had no idea who owned the building now, ownership turned over on the regular. I sent my rent check to a faceless management company somewhere I didn’t care about. As long as they didn’t bother me, I had no reason to bother them.

There was a mess on my desk: newspapers, contracts I needed to file, bills I needed to pay, and invoices I had to send out so that I would have something to pay the bills with. It was a soul-sucking, never-ending cycle. And then there was Weber looming. I had backed away, sure, but dead-bolted the door? Maybe. I made it a point to keep out of people’s marriages, both personally and professionally. I didn’t take domestic cases and I didn’t waste time with men who were separated from their wives. But now the ring was in a sock drawer and Weber was counting every encounter we had as a bona fide date. And Ben for some strange reason figured he had a stake in how it all turned out. What was that about?

I sat down again, drumming fidgety fingers on my desk blotter, then reached down and plucked the ad out of the trash and called it into the newspaper. It took all of five minutes, and I breathed a sigh of relief when it was done. I held the receiver in my hand. Maybe I could make one call about the Ayers case. What could it hurt? If I had more information, I reasoned, I might convince Jung to let things drop. Detective Marta Pena knew her stuff and she also knew I could be a pain in the ass, so I wouldn’t even have to make nice and pretend I didn’t have it in me. I eyed the invoices. I eyed the phone. I thought of Jung racing off, Lord knows where, half-cocked and stupid, and dialed Marta’s cell phone.