“Yes. There are some people outside, there’s something you have to handle, and the phone will start to ring as soon as people have their second coffee.”

“Why?”

“Your picture is in the Port Smith Herald-Press. They’ve started a series on famous old crimes, I guess because of Mary Shoftel, and they have the Leikman case today. Your picture is on the bottom of page one, over the caption ‘War Hero Cop Who Tracked Down Leikman’s Killer …’”

“Say no more.” The Shoftel case was more than the depraved circus he had thought; it had moved into ritual. The Herald-Press had run a similar series during the Leikman case. Now one of the papers had to start a fund. There had been none six and a half years ago, because nobody had cared about Leikman or his family, but a fund really was standard. When one of these things happened the public waited and looked for a place to send its money. This added to its sense of participation. Leland asked, “Who are the people in the office?”

“Schwartzwald, for one,” she said. “He’s seeing Mr. Petrakis now.”

“Swell. Keep your voice down.” Leland and his partner, Mike Petrakis, had adjoining offices, separated by a plasterboard wall. “What does Schwartzwald want? I told him on Friday that I’d call him.”

“He likes it here, I think.”

“All right, who else?”

“Mrs. Colin MacIver.”

“Don’t know her. What kind of a looking woman is she?”

“Early twenties, small, brunette, cute, and pregnant.”

“No kidding? Okay.”

“With her is a Mr. Miller. Fred, he said. He’s—”

“I know him,” Leland said. “Heavy guy around fifty.”

“That’s him. Mr. Petrakis doesn’t know who he is. He gave him that polite look as he came out to greet Mr. Schwartzwald.”

Greet Mr. Schwartzwald. Mike still had a lot to learn about handling people. Leland said, “Mike wouldn’t know Miller. He’s an agent for Manitou down in Port Smith”—in the proper contexts, the name of the town was sufficient to identify the insurance company—“and he’s another pest, like Schwartzwald. The last thing we need is him drumming up trade. I haven’t seen him in years. Does he still have that tweed overcoat?”

“Brown, with raglan sleeves,” Florence said. “He kept his hat on when he sat down—”

“He’s bald.”

“I sort of knew that,” she said.

“Okay, what is it that I have to handle?”

“Hugh Thoms called. He thinks he was spotted last night on the custody case. It was late and the woman seemed to be on her way home. She turned around and went by him and looked him straight in the eye. He’ll explain it to you.”