No one had told him about a danger in the electrical plant; he looked surly and frightened and threatened to call his boss. We assured him the problem had been traced to one office on thirty—that our boss had warned us very sternly against alarming people since we only had to deal with the wiring in one room.

“Don’t get us fired, man, okay?” I pleaded.

He grudgingly decided he would keep it to himself and phoned upstairs for us. “But you better give me advance warning if this place is going up in smoke.”

“If it goes up in smoke you’ll be the only one sitting pretty,” I pointed out, following Mr. Contreras onto the elevator.

Once on thirty Mr. Contreras took charge. Even though the Koslowski cap covered my hair and shielded my face, we didn’t want to run the risk of someone recognizing me. The worst danger was that Todd Pichea, who knew Mr. Contreras as well as me, might be working late. We needn’t have worried, though—as the old man had pointed out earlier, workmen in a professional office are considered about as human as water buffalo, only not as unusual.

Mr. Contreras flourished our work order at a young man in a T-shirt and jeans, stressing the extreme danger of any inexperienced person coming near the dangerous electrons floating around Dick’s office. Clutching a massive printout for security, the young man escorted us as far as the top of the interior stairwell.

“Mr. Yarborough’s office is at the end of the hall there. Uh, this key should open his office. If, uh, you don’t mind, I need to get back to work. Maybe you can find it yourselves from here. You can leave the key at the front desk when you leave.”

“Right,” Mr. Contreras said sternly. “And make sure no one comes down here until we give you the all-clear. We’re going to cut one of the lines. You may notice the lights dim occasionally, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

Our guide couldn’t wait to get clear of the area. With any luck the whole crew would be scared enough to leave work early tonight. I didn’t want some braver soul coming to investigate while I was copying Dick’s files.

When I unlocked my ex-husband’s office I felt a kind of guilty thrill. It reminded me of the times when I was small and hunted out the drawer where my dad hid his police revolver. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch it, or even know where it was, and excitement and shame would get me so wound up I’d have to put on my skates and race around the block a few times. With an uneasy twinge I wondered if those feelings were what had led me into detective work. I remembered my advice to Mr. Contreras—plenty of time for self-analysis later.