The woman who manned the desk closest to the entry was already on her feet. She was blond and thin and appeared perpetually nervous. “Can I help you?”

I showed my badge and ID. Lapis eyes widened as she read the pertinent information. “Officer Decker, is it?”

“Indeed it is. I’m trying to find out information on someone. Who would I talk to for that?”

“What kind of information?”

“It might be personal. Are you in charge?”

“No, that would be Mr. Klinghoffner.”

“Could I speak to him, please?”

“I think he’s upstairs.”

I didn’t say anything and neither did she. After a few seconds passed, I smiled and said, “When do you think he might come downstairs?”

“Oh, I can go get him if you want.”

“Yes, I would like that, thank you.”

“Okay.” She didn’t move, her eyes nervously scanning around the room. “You can sit down if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.” I decided she wanted me to sit before she fetched the boss. There was a cozy arrangement in the center of the room—a floral upholstered sofa and two matching overstuffed chairs. I elected to park myself on the couch and sank down into the cushions. She stared at me for a moment, then bounded up to the second story.

The house still had much of its old-world charm—arched entryways, hardwood floors, casement windows, a wood-beamed ceiling, and lots of built-in oak bookshelves and cabinets. The room was square and at each corner was a work area—a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a computer station. With the nervous woman upstairs in search of Mr. Klinghoffner, the only other person on the floor was a beanpole man in the right corner. He appeared to be in his late twenties with a short haircut and a mottled complexion. Buried in his paperwork, he didn’t bother to look at me. But that didn’t stop me from staring at him. When he did look up, he colored red and went back to his piles of pulp.

It was time for me to interject some novelty into his life. “What are you working on?”

“Pardon?” His eyes jumped to my face, his cheeks still pink. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, sir, I am. You seem to be working on something very important.”

“Not important, just vast.” His eyes went back to his desktop. “All this paperwork: rules, regulations, statutes, ordinances. Whoever the government doesn’t tax to death, it drowns in paperwork. Either way, it’s going to kill us all. You, me, my dog, your cat—”

“I don’t own a cat.”

“I wasn’t talking literally!” he replied, bristling. “Forget it!”

“You seem stressed,” I remarked.

“Oh please! If I hear that word one more time, I really will up-chuck! Anyone who works with bureaucracy is stressed! Obviously, you don’t.”

“I work for LAPD. They don’t come any more bureaucratic than that institution.”

“Or any more corrupt, if you don’t mind my impudence. What are you working on?”

“Talk about impudence.”