As we rounded the corner at Racine, a brown Chevy bristling with antennas slowed down. Detective Lemour rolled down his window and called out “Warshki.” I kept going.

He turned on his loudspeaker and broadcast to the neighborhood that those dogs better not be let off their leash. “You think you’re smart, Warshki, flaunting your friends in the PD, but I’m going to be on you like your underwear this summer. If you so much as run a stop sign I’ll be there, so watch your step.”

A woman with a toddler in tow looked from me to the police car, while two kids on the other side of the street stared, slack–jawed. I stopped and blew Lemour a kiss. His face darkened with fury, but his partner seemed to restrain him; he took off with a great screeching of rubber.

Why did the cops care so much about the injured woman? Maybe it was only Lemour who cared, but his threat made me almost as nervous as he intended. I urged the dogs up Racine to my apartment. I was beginning to think having an outside lab look at the Trans Am was the smartest thing I’d done this year.

Mr. Contreras had left a note in his large unpracticed hand to tell me he was down in his own place, making phone calls to a few likely prospects, and would I drop the dogs off with him on my way downtown. I showered again to wash the sweat from my hair, then called Max Loewenthal’s office while I dried off.

Max was in some meeting or other, which didn’t surprise me. Fortunately his secretary hadn’t gone to lunch and was glad to check on a Jane Doe for me. I gave her my cell–phone number and dressed at a record–setting pace, in a wheat–colored pantsuit, black top, and silver earrings. I could slap on a little makeup in the L.

I didn’t have time now for breakfast. I grabbed an apple from my groceries, stuffed my pumps into a briefcase, and ran back downstairs with the dogs. Mr. Contreras stopped me with a status report, although I told him I was on my way to Darraugh Graham’s.

“You’d better get going then, cookie,” he said, following me to the hall and hanging on the door. “It don’t do to keep the one guy who pays his bills on time waiting. I got a lead on a Buick Century with ninety–seven thousand on it, and a Dodge with some less, but maybe a whole lot more rust. What time do you think you’ll get back? Want me to take a look at these without you, or what?”

“You the man, Mr. C. Pick out the car of our dreams and I’ll drive you downtown to the Berghoff for dinner.”