“Kill you?” Grafalk’s bushy eyebrows arched. “You don’t strike me as the hysterical type, but that’s a pretty wild accusation.”

“Someone took out my brakes and steering last Thursday. It was only luck that kept me from careening into a semi on the Dan Ryan.”

Grafalk finished whatever he was drinking—it looked like a martini. Good old-fashioned businessman—no Perrier or white wine for him. “Do you have a good reason for thinking Clayton might have done it?”

“Well, he certainly had opportunity. But motive—no. No more than you or Martin Bledsoe or Mike Sheridan.”

Grafalk stopped on his way back to the bar and looked at me. “You suspect them as well? You’re sure the—uh—damage took place at the Port? Could it have been vandals?”

I swallowed some more sherry. “Yes, yes, and possibly, although I don’t believe it. It’s true anyone could empty brake fluid with a little ingenuity—but what vandals carry around a ratchet wrench and a cutting torch just on the off chance that they’ll find a car to mutilate? They’re much more likely to slash tires, steal hubcaps, or smash in windows. Or all three.”

Grafalk brought over the sherry bottle and topped off my glass. I tried to pretend I drank the stuff every day and didn’t attempt to read the label. I’d never be able to afford this sherry anyway; what did I care what it was called?

He sat back down with a fresh martini and looked at me intently. He was turning something over in his mind. “How much do you know about Martin Bledsoe?”

I stiffened. “I’ve met him a few times. Why?”

“He didn’t tell you anything about his background at dinner on Thursday?”

I put the expensive glass down with a snap on the tiled table. “Now who is spying on whom, Mr. Grafalk?”

He laughed again. “The Port is a small community, Miss Warshawski, and gossip about shipowners travels fast. Martin hasn’t asked a woman out to dinner since his wife died six years ago. Everyone was talking about it. Likewise your accident. I knew you were in the hospital but I didn’t know someone had deliberately tampered with your car.”

“The Herald-Star gave me a front-page story—picture of my poor Lynx with its front missing and everything … Gossip about Bledsoe must be buried pretty deep. No one gave me a whiff about his background that sounded as troublesome as you’re seeming to imply.”

“It is buried deep. I’ve never told anyone about it, even when Martin left me and I was mad enough to want to hurt him badly. But if there has been a crime committed, if there’s been an attempt on your life, you should know about it.”

I didn’t say anything. Outside, the house cast a lengthening shadow on the beach.