She started by picking the locks of the file cabinets but found mostly tax forms, job description forms, workmen’s comp forms. She tried the computer on the desk, but couldn’t get past the password prompt. She was rifling through the desk when she heard a commotion at the front door. Sensing the jig was up, she used the pry bar she’d used on the window to bust the lock on the file drawer built into the lower right side of the desk. She ripped a gash in the wood, tore the drawer off its rockers, and wrenched it from the desk frame to find the diskettes waiting for her.

“Finesse being the operative word here,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, “they were coming through the front door like a plane crash. I grabbed what I could and went out the window.”

There was a guy waiting out there for her but she popped his head with the pry bar a couple of times and he decided he preferred to sleep in the bushes for a while.

She came out onto Beacon through a small yard in front of a nondescript brownstone, found herself in a stream of Emerson College students heading to a night class. She walked with them as far as Berkeley Street and then retrieved our company car from its illegal parking spot on Marlborough Street.

“Oh, yeah,” she told me, “we got a parking ticket.”

“Of course, we did,” I said. “Of course, we did.”

Richie Colgan was so happy to see us he almost broke my foot trying to slam his front door on it.

“Go away,” he said.

“Nice bathrobe,” I said. “Can we come in?”

“No.”

“Please?” Angie said.

Behind him, I could see candles in his living room, a flute glass half-filled with champagne.

“Are you playing some Barry White?” I said.

“Patrick.” His teeth were gritted and something akin to a growl rumbled in his throat.

“It is,” I said. “That’s ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love’ coming from your speakers, Rich.”

“Leave my doorstep,” Richie said.

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Rich,” Angie said. “If you’d rather we came back…”

“Open the door, Richard,” his wife, Sherilynn, said.

“Hi, Sheri.” Angie waved through the crack in the door.

“Richard,” Sherilynn said.

Richie stepped back and we came into his house.

“Richard,” I said.

“Blow me,” he said.

“I don’t think it’d fit, Rich.”

He looked down, realized his robe had opened. He closed it and punched me in the kidneys as I passed.

“You prick,” I whispered and winced.

Angie and Sherilynn hugged by the kitchen counter.

“Sorry,” Angie said.

“Oh, well,” Sherilynn said. “Hey, Patrick. How are you?”

“Don’t encourage them, Sheri,” Richie said.

“I’m good. You look great.”