“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask of you,” I said abruptly. “I don’t think it will wear you out, but who knows? I have a videotape of the police goons in my office. I’d like it taken to Cheviot Labs, to an engineer named Rieff who’s been doing some work on Aguinaldo’s dress for me. I was going to send it to him tomorrow, but I want copies made first. I’m too nervous about how much of my phone conversations may have been overheard. I’m thinking my assailant heard me talking to my client about my out–of–town trip and used the opportunity to plant drugs in my office. If they heard me leave a message for Rieff Saturday night they’ll go to him, or intercept me, or do something to keep the tape from him. The other thing is a copy of a report on Lucian Frenada’s finances. Global is going to slam him on—on Murray Ryerson’s show tomorrow night, but I have evidence that he’s not living in luxury off the drug business. I want a million photocopies so it’s public.”

“Fine.” Morrell held out a hand. “I’ll take care of those. What do you want me to do with the copies?”

“Of the videotape? One to my lawyer, the original to Rieff to see if he can pick up who Lemour was speaking to on his cell phone. One to Murray Ryerson. And the report on Frenada, that should go to all those people, and a bunch of reporters I know—I can make up a list for you.”

“How’d you videotape Lemour when he had you cuffed?”

“Carnifice Security isn’t the only high–tech player in the detective world.” I told him about the video glasses as I scribbled a media list on the back of an old parking receipt.

“I once helped photocopy details of torture conducted by the Brazil secret police,” Morrell said. “It was a project organized by the Archbishop of Rio. We had a terrifying time, sneaking into the office after hours to see the records, copying them, returning them without anyone getting caught out or squealing. We could have used glasses like those. You going to be okay getting home?” he added as the waiter brought a check. “You’d be welcome to stay with me—I’ve got a spare bedroom.”

It was appealing, the idea of not having to worry about who might be lying in wait outside my door. Besides, there was my fantasy, lying with his long fingers on my body—on my sore body, but maybe he had a lover of some sex and wouldn’t find an exhausted forty–plus detective sexy, anyway.