I heard him whisper “Oh, fuck” under his breath, but he didn’t say anything else. “We need to talk, Warshawski, But I have to speak to my management group first. When can you come back out here? Tomorrow morning?”

I thought of the alarm installation. “I’m pretty busy. Unless you want to come down here?”

“Just can’t get away tomorrow morning. I’ll call you. But don’t go talking to anyone until you hear from me.”

“Ah, nuts, Loring. I’m not going to dangle on a spool for you forever.”

“I’m not asking you to, Warshawski. Just a couple of days. I may even get back to you tonight. Give me your number.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.” I saluted the phone smartly as we hung up, but of course he couldn’t see that.

So now what? Was he involved and trying to gain a few hours either to frame a cover-up or blow my brains out? At least Rawlings’s squad car might make the latter less likely.

I didn’t have enough information to worry about it anymore this afternoon. I needed to retrieve the Impala, collect my belongings from Mrs. Polter before she sold them for fire extinguishers, and return home.

On my way out I knocked at Mr. Contreras’s door. He was inside again and much relieved to see me. I let his waves of information about the glazier wash over me, thanking him when there was a break in the surf, then explaining my going back out. “I’m returning here. Probably by eight.”

“I could make us dinner,” he offered tentatively.

I hugged him briefly. “I’ve got some chicken upstairs that I ought to cook tonight. Why don’t you let me make you something for a change?”

He walked me to the door. “Stay out of the San this time, doll. I know you drink a lot of water, but that stuff ain’t good for you.”

Vinnie was coming in as I left. Mr. Contreras and I both stared at him, trying to picture him as a con artist. In his pale-gray summer suit and tightly knotted tie he looked so stodgily corporate that I had to give it up.

“Evening, Vinnie,” I said brightly. “Got any investment advice for us?”

He looked at me stonily. “Sell your share in the co-op, Warshawski. Neighborhood’s coming up and you won’t be able to afford your tax bill.”

I laughed, but I could feel Mr. Contreras start to bristle. As I went out the door I heard a diatribe that began with “young man” and might end anywhere.