At the Sheriffs Department, Dolan put the car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake, then slid from the driver's seat while I emerged from my side, went around the front, and took his place at the wheel. He'd fired up a cigarette before I could get my bearings. He fished his key out of his pocket and let himself into his room. I spent a few seconds adjusting the seat and the rearview mirror, trying to get a feel for the old Chevy, which had the bulk of a tank after my snub-nosed VW. As soon as I was set, the engine conked out on me. I turned the key in the ignition and pressed the gas pedal lightly, coaxing and cajoling until the engine caught hold again. I felt like a little kid. I peered down the length of the hood, wishing I were perched on a New York City telephone book, though my feet barely touched the pedals as it was.

I pulled my bag onto my lap and checked my notebook for the address I'd been given, then consulted the minimap. The town of Quorum was roughly twenty-five streets wide, transected by five big boulevards that ran east and west. A series of smaller east-west streets further defined a grid that made navigation easy. Dr. Nettleton's daughter lived on Banner Way in a small subdivision on the northern outskirts. I released the hand brake and backed out of the space with caution, then eased the car through the lot and onto the main drag. Drive time was approximately four minutes.

The house number I was looking for turned out to be another one-story brick ranch set among full-grown trees. The two-car garage had been incorporated into the main structure, and I was guessing it now served as guest quarters. Large tubs of pink begonias were lined up across the porch with its wide overhang.

I rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. I'd caught her in the middle of her morning exercise, pink-faced and out of breath. In the background, I could see Jane Fonda doing leg lifts.

"I'm looking for Dr. Nettleton. Are you his daughter?"

"That's right. I take it you're the private detective. Alana Gary told me you might be stopping by. Come on in."

"I'm Kinsey Millhone."

"Vonda Landsberg," she replied. "Dad's in his room down the hall, the last door on the right. If you don't mind, I'll let you find your own way."

"Sure. Is he expecting me?"

"Hard to say. His mind is sharp, but his memory comes and goes. He can still beat the pants off my husband at chess, but he's easily exhausted, so please don't stay long."

"Fifteen minutes tops."