“It is. His name is Roger Kraft.” He reached for a notepad and pen, started scribbling. “I’ll give you the address.”

He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to me across the desk.

“I appreciate this, Mr. Owens,” I said, pocketing it. “What does Kraft look like, by the way?”

“Look like? Well, he’s about forty. Your size, a little heavier.”

“Pony tail? Beard?”

“Heavens no. Neither! Not Roger. He’s an ex-Marine.” That pinched mouth managed a grin. “He would gladly pummel any man who wore a pony tail.”

“If that ever comes up,” I said, “I’ll know who to ask.”

I thanked him and stood.

He got to his feet as well and said, “I can’t imagine how or why my F40 could have been used in that despicable way. But on the very long shot that it was, Mr. Hammer, would you please let me know?”

“You’ll be the first,” I said.

I was barely out the door when the Ice Queen guarding Vance Colby’s gate called out, “Mr. Hammer! A moment please!”

I walked down to her desk. She’d pretty well melted by now, and seemed downright pleasant, saying, “If it’s at all convenient, Mr. Colby would like a few words.”

“Any particular ones?”

That got a real smile out of her. Every secretary and receptionist in town loved me now.

She said, “You can go right in.”

I did.

Vance Colby was seated on one of the facing couches near the fireplace again, flames going full-throttle. People his age get cold easy—really cold when they stop breathing.

“Please join me, Mr. Hammer.”

I went over and did that, sitting opposite him. He had a snifter of brandy waiting. We’d graduated from coffee. He poured me a glass and I accepted it. Tasted fine, although what does a beer guy know about brandy?

The plump little man with the trim mustache, wrapped up in another well-tailored pinstripe, poured himself some brandy but set the glass down.

“I am surprised to see you back at Colby so soon,” my client said. “Have you something to report?”

I hadn’t come to report at all, of course, but he did have ten grand’s worth of my time.

So I said, “Just an interesting wrinkle or two.”

I told him that I’d confirmed the NYPD was not exactly setting up roadblocks to nab the hit-and-runner; his assumption that they were blowing off the incident would seem to be right on. I also let him know that a specific, rare model of Ferrari had been the vehicle.

Then I informed him of the Ferrari F40 whose owner was parked down the hall.

“You’ll most likely find,” the old man said, unimpressed, “that’s merely a coincidence.”

Everybody today was telling me what to think about coincidences.

“William Owens is a good boy,” he said, as if I’d suggested otherwise. “He and Vincent were at Harvard together. Met on the rugby team. They think the world of each other. Those two are the future of this firm.”