Danny’s modest square footage included a small yet stylish reception area with glass entry doors, a narrow conference room and three back offices, the largest of which was, of course, his. The smaller offices were periodically occupied by this junior partner or that paralegal, until this junior partner or that paralegal discovered the sky-high bounce of his checks and what an absolute fuck knuckle Danny truly was. There were plants in the small lobby that required only occasional light dusting, art prints on the beige walls that didn’t give a damn whether you looked at them or not, nicely framed photos of Danny posing with a few used-to-be celebrities and an ornately framed law degree, which I suspect had been special ordered from Malaysia.

The most striking feature of his office was the receptionist, a zaftig, spray-on-tanned blonde in a squeeze-me-tease-me yellow floral dress.

Come for the bad legal advice; stay for the freckled cleavage.

“Hello,” the receptionist said brightly. “Welcome to D. A. Romero Law. My name is Skye. And would you be Mr. Sloane?”

“No,” I said. “I would be Olaudah Equiano. Call me Ollie.”

“Wow,” Skye said, giving me a sideways look, “that’s amazing. I mean you have the exact same name as an eighteenth-century Nigerian slave who became a celebrated British abolitionist and literary phenom before his death in 1797.” She winked at me. “Bad luck for you, I have a master’s in English lit. Now, may I ask: Who are you really, sir?”

“August Snow,” I said, offering a hand. We shook. Nice knuckle-cracking grip, this one. “And that’s the first time in five years that hasn’t worked.”

“Local constabulary?”

“Involuntarily sent to pasture,” I said. “And if you don’t mind my saying, all the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey—but you’re a sight for sore eyes on a cold winter’s day.”

She laughed. “I find wearing bright, happy colors during the dreary days of winter helps me abate the usual Michigan seasonal affective disorder.” There were flecks of gold in her wide blue eyes. “Xanax helps, too. Do you have an appointment, Mr. Snow?”

“No,” I said. “But I think Danny’ll want to see me before Mr. Sloane arrives.” Then, casually sitting on the edge of Skye’s desk with all the self-confident panache of a detective from one of my father’s sixties gumshoe novels, I said, “It’s a case involving real estate fraud, aggravated assault, attempted murder and, I suspect, actual murder. And let me guess, Skye—he’s already in conference with Ms. Jackie Ochoa?”

“You seem to know more about what’s going on around here than I do,” she said, narrowing her fascinating eyes.

“Trust me,” I said. “I do.”