Her voice, which lacked its usual crisp vitality, was more depressing than her words. I tried to remember my conversations with Conrad Rawlings and Terry Finchley. I hadn’t told them about the person masquerading as Mitch Kruger’s son who’d lifted his papers from Mrs. Polter’s. Maybe I should do that. I couldn’t bear the thought of Lotty suddenly aging out of fear, especially a fear I’d helped foster.

I was silent so long she said sharply, ‘There is something, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know if there is or not. It didn’t seem relevant to me, but I’ll call Detective Finchley and tell him before I leave.”

“Do that, Vic,” she said, her voice cracking. “Pretend I matter, that I’m not just a little piece of your game plan that didn’t work the way you hoped.”

“Lotty! That’s not fair—” I began, but she hung up before I could hear her crying.

Was I really that lacking in feeling? I loved Lotty. More than any living person I could think of. Was I treating her like a pawn? I didn’t have a game plan; that was half my trouble. I was floundering from action to action, not knowing in what direction I was going. Nonetheless, the distaste I’d felt for myself after breaking into Carver’s office last night came back to me. A knot of self-disgust twisted my stomach.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to go back to bed. My lids were so leaden I could scarcely open my eyes. I leaned back in the couch and let the wave of depression wash over me. After a time, not feeling better but knowing I had to get moving, I called over to Area One to talk to Finchley. He wasn’t in; I left my name and number and asked him to phone me this evening. At least no one hung up on me mid-sentence. That was a distinct improvement over my first two calls.

I moved drearily down the stairs. Before heading for the street I knocked on Mr. Contreras’s door. It was a sign of my desperate state that I even accepted a cup of his overboiled coffee before setting out. This afternoon the old man had enough zip for two, maybe even four. He’d spent the morning drafting our ad and calling around Arizona to get the names and rates of their biggest dailies; he was eager to show me his handiwork. I tried to drum up an appropriate level of enthusiasm, but he suddenly noticed my spirits didn’t match his.

“What’s eating you, doll? Rough night?”

I gave a self-conscious laugh. “Oh, I just feel like I let Lotty in for a bad time and haven’t done anything to help her.”