I’m only a few years younger than Murray. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to take on his boss—especially on the insubstantial grounds I’d suggested. It’s true Murray has a condo in Lincoln Park and a new Mercedes convertible, compared to my spartan four rooms and beat–up Buick, but you feel fifty coming toward you and start getting nervous about how you’re going to afford old age. At least, I do at times.

Murray’s scoffing nettled me, but it embarrassed me, too. In the morning I went soberly about the business I was being paid to conduct, taking time only to call Cheviot Labs for a report on the Trans Am. They were giving my car a clean bill of health. I was nervous enough about the pressure from the State’s Attorney to ask them to messenger over a copy of the report before they gave the car to the cops, and I found an empty folder for the paramedics’ report Max had faxed to me. It was labeled Alumni Fund, from when I’d agreed to help raise money for my law school class. I’d done it mostly to help build connections among firms that might need a professional investigator, although when I automated, I’d discovered that most of the information was out of date. I’d type a proper label later, but for now I would attend to my own business. I would not pursue any other ideas, including a thought I’d had about going down to the Ferragamo boutique to see if they knew what garment that little logo had come from.

I printed the LifeStory report on the job candidate I was investigating for Darraugh Graham. I called banks and previous employers and put together a nice little dossier. I went back to my maps of rural Georgia.

At two a messenger arrived from Cheviot with their forensic report on my car. A man named Rieff had signed it. After a thorough inspection of the Trans Am’s front end, he said he found no traces of organic matter in the paint, wheels, or grille except for insect carcasses. Rieff was willing to stand up in court and pronounce the Trans Am clean outside, if not in. For this work the lab asked the modest fee of $1,878.

I wrote out a check, then faxed the report to my lawyer’s office with a crisp note telling him to get the State’s Attorney off my back. Freeman called a little later to tell me that privately the state was persuaded by the Cheviot report, but they weren’t going to admit that publicly because, as Freeman said, “You were such a pain in the ass about turning the Trans Am over to begin with. The cops are going to make you pay by holding on to your car.”