“Your client got rid of potential evidence. If you advised him to do that you could be facing obstruction charges.”

“Same answer, I’m afraid.”

Banfer turned to Milo. Milo glared and Banfer faced forward again. “Let’s put this in context: I’ve been more forthcoming than I need to be, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances are those, Floyd?”

“No charges have been filed against anyone, you’re at the supposition stage, fishing around, and neither I nor my client is obligated to talk to you about anything. However, we chose to cooperate volitionally because we’re not obstructionistic. And in terms of files, I’m unaware of any statute requiring a small businessman to cope with needless paper buildup.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo.

Sudden switch to an easy, amiable tone. Banfer risked another try at eye contact. Milo smiled.

“Well,” said the attorney, “it’s good to see we’ve reached a meeting of the minds.”

“I agree. Now how about we talk to Jack, directly.”

“You feel that’s necessary?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t, Floyd.”

Banfer sighed again, punched numbers on his cell phone. “Hey, it’s me … as well as can be expected … I told them that … they still want to talk to you … I’ll stay right here, not to worry … might as well, you’ve got nothing to hide … sooner’s better than later, Jack, let’s get it over with and move on … we’re on the parkway between Beverly and Camden … good idea.” Clicking off, he studied the traffic. “On his way.”

Jack Weathers wore a blue cashmere blazer, a white silk shirt, dove-colored slacks, blue suede loafers with gold buckles. If they recast Gilligan’s Island, he’d be great for Thurston Howell the Third. Except for the defeated, sagging shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that had deepened during the twenty-four hours since we’d last seen him.

The shuffling gait of an old, weary man.

I got up and vacated the space next to Banfer. Weathers hesitated.

Milo said, “Take a load off, Jack.”

Weathers’s jowls quivered. Pink capillaries laced the whites of his eyes. A couple of cuticles were rubbed raw, detracting from an otherwise perfect manicure.

He sat down heavily and Banfer filled him in on what we knew. When Banfer wanted to, he could be concise.

Jack Weathers laced his hands together, stared at his knees.

Milo said, “Tell me everything you remember about the woman who called herself Simone Chambord.”

“What’s her real name?” said Weathers.

“Why don’t you let me do the asking so you can do the answering.”

Weathers’s head snapped back.

Floyd Banfer said, “Let’s keep it streamlined, Jack, and they’ll be out of your hair.”

Weathers said nothing. The group of younger Persian women returned. His attention shifted to shapely rears, and that seemed to relax him.