“No. I just came by to see him.”

“That shit. I went to the safe deposit box. Two pair of earrings, a necklace, a broach, and a bracelet—all missing. He gave them to me when he was riding high. Told me I had the only key to the box.”

Her nails were bright red, her lips the same. Orange patches glowed on her cheeks. She wore flashy rings on six of her fingers. She was in her late forties, he thought. But the skin around her eyes was drum-tight.

“So I came to get them back. What do you want with the snake?”

“To talk to him about some old business. I guess you don’t know where he is?”

“No, and his lawyer won’t say where he’s at. I want this divorce over and done with. His asshole creditors are driving me nuts.”

Addis asked for the lawyer’s name. She pulled a business card out of the purse.

“Can hardly say it. Fucking Polack.”

Addis wrote the name and number on a scrap of paper.

“I think I’m going to wait a while,” she said. “See if the scumbag shows.”

She took a seat and put her feet on a desk. She patted the bulge in her purse. Addis started asking questions. She told him that Griffith’s firm had fallen apart after the banking investigators began their inquiry. At the same time, his investments—primarily risky future options—collapsed. He filed bankruptcy. She kicked him out. She let him back. He tried to keep a practice going. He hooked up with this export/import guy whom she suspected was smuggling dope. And Griffith was using. She booted him again. She let him back again. She came home one day, and he and the export-import dealer were in the house with two bimbos. There were coke lines on the coffee table. She threw him out, and that was it. Their attorneys were in charge now. The bank case was going to trial. Her jewelry was gone.

“If you find him before I do, let me know, hon, okay?” she asked.

He promised.

“Tracy Griffith,” she said.

She recited her phone number and waited for him to write it down.

“Thanks a bunch,” she said. “And close the door for me on the way out. I’d like this to be a surprise. He probably forgot I have the keys.”

He moved to the door.

“And, hon, sorry about Mr. Hanover. I didn’t vote for him’cause of the capital gains stuff. I needed the break. But I’m sorry all the same.”

Addis found Rudd in the Tulane law library. She asked for fifteen more minutes. He called McGreer’s office. There was nothing for which he was needed. He checked his messages—no calls from Dunne. Then he called the lawyer with the Polish name.

“Yeah,” a man answered.

Addis stumbled over the pronunciation.

“Just say, ‘Joe Mik,’” the gruff voice advised.