“That’s what they say.”

“How long’s Clive been working here?”

She edged closer to the glass. “You suspect him of something?”

“Not at all.”

“Routine questions,” she said. “Like on TV.”

“You got it.”

“If you say so.” She returned to her computer.

We waited five minutes before Milo asked her to page Hatfield again.

She said, “Maybe he’s doing something noisy and didn’t hear.”

“We can go back and look for him.”

“No, that’s okay.” She repeated the page. Before the announcement faded, the door opened behind us and a reedy voice said, “I heard you the first time, Esther.”

Definite accent, but not chips and ale. Maybe Sweet Home Alabama.

Esther muttered, “He’s all yours.”

Clive Hatfield wiped blackened hands on a rag not much cleaner than his skin. Early thirties, tall and bowlegged in gray pin-striped coveralls, he had long, lank brown hair tinted brass at the tips, bushy sideburns, a tiny crushed nose. Squinty eyes looked us over while he worked at the grease. As some of the grime relented, I noticed a pallid band of flesh circling his left ring finger.

“Yeah?”

Esther said, “These are the police, here to see you.”

“The police — what the… this is for real?”

Milo said, “Let’s talk outside.” Hatfield hesitated, then followed.

We passed near a bright red Continental GT coupe that Hatfield regarded with distaste.

Milo said, “Kind of garish.”

Shrug. “It’s their money. Where are y’all taking me?”

“Here,” said Milo, stopping at the Seville.

Hatfield’s face tightened as he checked out my car. “This is a cop drive? What, some sort of undercover thing?” He ran a finger along the top of the Seville’s hood, left a gray trail. “GM used a Chevy Two chassis on these, gussied it up and quadrupled the price.”

Milo said, “I hear the Bentley Continental’s an Audi with interior decorating.”

Hatfield stashed the rag in a rear pocket. “You’re into wheels? What do y’all drive when you’re not working?”

“Porsche 928.”

“Not bad for what it was. But give me a Carrera any day.”

“Clive, we’re here about Katrina Shonsky.”

Hatfield brushed hair from his eyes. Grazed his nubby nose in the process, left a greasy dot on the tip. “What about her?”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“What, she’s in trouble?”

“If you could just answer the question.”

“The last time… so she did get herself in trouble, figures.” Hatfield pulled a hard pack of Salems from a side pocket, blew smoke toward the scoop-mouth of a black Aston Martin. “The last time was when she got all dramatic and kicked my ass out of her crib… I’d have to say… three months ago.”

“Lovers’ spat?”

“There was never no love,” said Hatfield, smiling. “Only you-know-what.”

“Physical relationship.”