Vince refused to look up at me. He nodded his head. "Yes," he said. "He said he's had an inspiration. Something really new and different." "I think that's terrific," I said, "but I don't think I can afford inspiration. We'll have to tell him no."

Vince shook his head again. "You don't understand. He only called because he likes you. He says the contract allows him to do whatever he wants." "And he wants to raise the price a wee bit?" Vince was definitely blushing now. He mumbled a few syllables and tried to look away even further. "What?" I asked him. "What did you say?"

"About double," he said, very quietly, but at least audible.
"Double," I said.
"Yes."
"That's $500 a plate," I said.
"I'm sure it will be very nice," said bright-red Vince.

"For $500 a plate it had better be more than nice. It had better park the cars, mop the floor, and give all the guests a back rub."

"This is cutting-edge stuff, Dexter. You'll probably get your wedding in a magazine."
"Yes, and it will probably be Bankruptcy Today. We have to talk to him, Vince."
He shook his head and continued to look at the grass. "I can't," he said.

Humans are wonderful combinations of silly, ignorant, and dumb, aren't they? Even the ones who are pretending most of the time, like Vince. Here he was, a fearless forensic tech, actually within inches of a gruesomely murdered body that had no more effect on him than a tree stump, and yet he was paralyzed with terror at the thought of facing a tiny man who sculpted chocolate for a living.

"All right," I said. "I'll talk to him myself." He looked up at me at last. "Be careful, Dexter," he said.

TWENTY-TWO

I CAUGHT UP WITH DEBORAH AS SHE WAS TURNING HER CAR around, and happily, she paused long enough for me to climb in for a ride to the registrar's office. She had nothing to say on the short drive over, and I was too preoccupied with my own problems to care.

A quick search of the records with my new friend at the registrar's office turned up no Tammy in any of Halpern's classes. But Deborah, who had been pacing back and forth while she waited, was ready for that. "Try last semester," she said. I did; again nothing.

"All right," she said with a frown. "Then try Wilkins's classes." It was a lovely idea, and to prove it, I got an immediate hit: Ms. Connor was in Wilkins's seminar on situational ethics. "Right," Deborah said. "Get her address."

Tammy Connor lived in a residential hall that was only moments away, and Deborah wasted no time in getting us over there and parking illegally in front of it. She was out of the car and marching toward the front door before I could even get my door open, but I followed along as quickly as I could.