“One moment, please.” The intercom went cold, and I sat idling at the gate for a good five minutes until a black SUV, with POLICE, BARRINGTON HILLS emblazoned on the side, pulled up behind me, lights flashing, blocking me in at the gate. Two cops got out. I caught on quickly that the answer to my question concerning Mrs. Ayers’s availability was a resounding no. I got out of my car slowly, keeping my hands up and out. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a short, fat man in a pin-striped suit stroll out of the Ayers front door, down the drive, and through the gate where I stood. There was a gold watch fob in his right vest pocket, a pocket watch attached. Watch fob? What was this, 1918? The fat dandy scowled at me as he moved past me to greet the suburban cops, who didn’t look all that eager to engage. After a brief discussion, Watch Fob padded over to me. My height, and his lack of it, gave me a bird’s-eye view of the growing bald spot on the top of his freckled head.

“I thought you might try and wheedle your way in to see Mrs. Ayers, even after I warned you to stay away.” He shot me a self-satisfied smile, behaving as though he’d single-handedly nabbed Bonnie Parker in the middle of a stickup.

I slowly put my hands down, eyeing the cops cautiously. “Robert V. Felton, Esquire. So you decided to camp out here on the off chance that I’d try to swim the moat?”

“I have resources. You have a reputation for being both tenacious and recalcitrant. I thought it best to head you off, which I’ve successfully done.” He pointed to the cops behind him. “These gentlemen will escort you from the premises. If you return, which I strongly advise against, the Ayers family is prepared to press charges for trespassing and harassment.” He stepped back, and then snapped his fingers as if summoning his very own pet giant to squash an encroaching villager. “Gentlemen?”

The cops—both white, one tall, one wide, both with buzz cuts—stood staunchly upright, stern faces advertising their unwillingness to take part in a lot of needless chitchat.

“Where were you when Tim fell from his boat, Felton?”

Felton’s eyes, ferretlike, bags under them, flashed a warning. “You have no idea who I am, do you?” He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that might send little kids cowering under the covers, screaming for Mommy.

“Actually, I do. You see, I also have resources. Long story short, you’re a bully in a thousand-dollar suit who charges wealthy clients, like the Ayerses, exorbitant amounts to haul their pampered asses out of whatever cracks they manage to fall into. They likely have your number on speed dial, and when they call, like now, apparently, you run right over to make the unpleasantness go away.”