Billfold, key wallet, neatly folded handkerchief, small change. Leland clutched the items to his chest and took a step back. “Okay. Again with your left hand—undo your belt, take it off, and throw it in the corner.” He waited, breathing hard. The lights were supposed to be soft, but the place looked like any other doctor’s office. Nothing more. If a patient ever lost his fear in here, it was because of the doctor, not the furnishings. Leland had expected better. “Open the button. Hold your pants up with your hand.”

Roberts’ legs were shaking from the strain. “You don’t know what you’re doing. This is just humiliating.”

“Not at all. Turn around. We won’t have bad trouble if you have to hold onto your pants.” Leland moved back behind the desk. “Sit down. In front of me.” He put the wallet and keys on the blotter. Roberts eased over the arm of the chair, afraid to get too close to the gun. Leland spread the contents of Roberts’ pockets across the desk. “You had another set of keys.”

“You stole the spare set. I had my regular set in my pocket. Look, will you put that away? At least let me button my pants.”

“You have all the freedom of movement you need. Relax.”

There were keys for the drawers of the desk. Leland would get to them. He sat down in Roberts’ contour swivel chair. Roberts was wearing a dark gray suit and a blue tie. For a man who had just hosted a very crowded party, he was in wonderful shape. He had had a drink in his hand any time Leland had looked at him, but his eyes were as clear now as they had been at the start of the evening. Leland said, “You know why I’m here. By all accounts your friend should not have been your patient, but he was. I assure you that I know exactly why. Now I want that file. We can be nice about it or I can take this place apart.”

“Let me clean my glasses.” He leaned forward to catch his handkerchief as Leland tossed it to him. “You can’t dictate. What do you call it, breaking and entering? Plus assault with a deadly weapon? You aren’t going to shoot anybody, Joe. I could get up and walk out of here—”

“Don’t kid yourself! You made your use of MacIver in spite of what you, a doctor, knew about him. Maybe you didn’t put him up to it, but he worked hard for you. Maybe he even finished the job, getting the letters you wrote. I figure that that sacrifices at least your professional privilege, not to say your license to practice medicine. If you don’t think you have to deal with me—”

“Just a minute. He had letters I wrote? He had letters I wrote to the people he knew?”