Ted told Lester to wait in the car with Mohammed. Lester had put the sunglasses back on, but they hid only the bruises around his eyes. He looked like one step up from roadkill.

A muted buzzer went off as Ted pushed open the door to a shallow waiting room. A counter separated the client space from the work and storage area. Shelves held desktop PCs, laptops, a few antique lamps, and an assortment of ancient power tools. Everything was labeled with customer information and a dollar amount, presumably the cost of the repair. One hundred twenty-five dollars seemed a fair price for getting an HP reliably streaming Game of Thrones again, but Ted doubted that anyone was coming to pay the eighty-dollar ransom on a variable drill unless they had some deep emotional attachment to it.

“Be right there,” a voice called from behind a curtained doorway.

A sign over the counter read cracked screens fixed while you wait—all cell phone repairs must be paid for in advance. free estimate.

“No rush,” Ted said. There were two plastic chairs against the wall. He took one and looked out the window. Mohammed’s car was idling in front of a fire hydrant across the street. Lester was slouched in the back.

The curtain was swept away, and a man in his midfifties in a short-sleeved white shirt and rimless spectacles emerged from the back room. He had the tall, gaunt frame of Abraham Lincoln and a protruding Adam’s apple as sharp as an ax blade. His shirt pocket held a plastic protector bursting with plastic pens, tiny screwdrivers, and a metal flashlight the size of a cigarette.

“How can I help you?” he said.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Zielinski,” Ted said, though he was sure that he was looking at him.

“I’m Peter Zielinski.” He was curious, not threatened. A man with a clear conscience.

“I’m a friend of McKenzie’s. Ted Molloy.”

If he recognized Ted’s name, he gave no sign. “Is she in jail again?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“’Cause you look like a lawyer. And it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I need to get in touch with her. Can you get her a message?”

“She’s not answering her phone?” His voice rose in pitch. Ted was scaring him.

“I haven’t tried her phone for the very simple reason that I don’t have her number.”

Now Ted had confused him. “I thought you said—”

“We met last week. I’m old school, I guess. I don’t ask for a lady’s number. I wait until she offers it.” It was a weak excuse and sounded like one.

The man was now on full alert. “And how did you find me?”

“She told me you had a repair business. There aren’t many.”