“An artist,” said Milo, “with independent income. Ambling out to his driveway in comfy clothes, doing whatever the hell he pleases. Life’s sure fair, ain’t it?”

There were things Milo wanted to do after dark, so he thanked Alex, told him to stay out of trouble, he’d call in the morning.

“Anything else I can do for you, big guy?”

Milo quashed the impulse to say, “Stay out of trouble.” “No, not right now.”

“Okay,” said Alex. He sounded disappointed. Milo wanted to ask about Robin, but he didn’t.

Instead, he hung up, thinking about Janie Ingalls and how some lives are so short, so brutish that it was a wonder God bothered.

He slogged through yet another rush-hour mess from downtown, wondering what to do with Rick and deciding that a nice hotel for a few days was the best solution. Rick would be profoundly unhappy, but he wouldn’t scream. Rick never screamed, just tucked himself in psychologically and grew quiet and unreachable.

It wouldn’t be fun, but in the end Rick would agree. All these years together, and they’d both learned to pick their battles.

He made it home by five o’clock.

Midway up his block, he stopped.

Something white was stationed in his driveway.

The Porsche.

He looked around, saw no strange cars on the block, gunned the Taurus, and swung it behind the pearly 928. From what he could tell the car was intact—no joyriding wounds or missing parts. More than intact—shiny and clean, as if it had been freshly washed. Rick kept it spotless, but Milo couldn’t remember when he’d last scrubbed it down . . . last weekend. For most of the week, Rick had garaged the car, but the last two days he’d left it out to be ready when he hit the ER early. Two days’ dirt would have shown itself easily on the white paint.

Someone had detailed the damn thing.

He surveyed the block, put his hand on his gun, got out cautiously, walked over to the Porsche and touched the car’s convex flank.

Glossy. Washed and waxed.

A peek through the window added freshly vacuumed to the picture; he could see the tracks in the carpet.

Even the steering wheel lock had been put back. Then he saw something on the driver’s seat.

A brown paper bag.

He gave the block another up-and-down, then kneeled down and examined the Porsche’s underside. No ticking toys or tracers. Popping the trunk revealed an intact rear engine. He’d worked on the car himself, had rust-proofed the belly for all those cold-weather trips that had never materialized. He knew the Porsche’s guts well. Nothing new.

He unlocked the driver’s door, took a closer look at the bag. The paper mouth was open, and the content was visible.

A blue binder. Not shiny leather like Alex’s little gift. Your basic blue cloth.