About to refresh the doctor’s memory, Walt startled when a black Burmese cat hopped onto the kitchen island, appearing suddenly as if it had been conjured from thin air. It slunk along the far edge of the counter, its back arched and its tail straight up like a snake about to strike. Jade-green eyes glowed from the depths of the cat’s jet-black face, with vertical slits for pupils staring at Walt as if he was trespassing.

“Walt,” Dr. Lockard said, reaching for the cat. “Where are your manners?”

Walt looked, slack jawed, from the cat to Dr. Lockard. “You have a cat named Walt?”

Dr. Lockard ran his hand over the cat’s back as it purred softly. “Purely coincidence, Detective. I’ve never married, so in lieu of companionship I have a house full of cats. There are only so many names.”

Walt shifted his gaze around the kitchen, imagining other feline eyes staring at him from the shadows.

Dr. Lockard looked blankly at Walt as he continued to pet the cat. The edges of his lips eventually curled again into the subtlest of smiles. “I’m fucking with you, Detective.”

Walt stayed still for a moment, confused. “Your cat’s not named after me?”

“No. This is Mortimer. He’s the only cat in the house and I can’t stand the goddamn thing.” Dr. Lockard lifted the cat off his lap and dropped it onto the ground where it hissed before scurrying off. “My wife and I are watching it for our daughter, who’s away for the Fourth of July holiday. But she’s picking the furry thing up this morning. Any minute, in fact. So stop sitting there like a prom queen who shit her dress, and spit out what it is you need, Detective, before my grandchildren swarm this house. Because I won’t be able to talk about dead authors from twenty years ago after they arrive.”

Walt finally smiled.

“I’m not as scary as you think, Detective. But my wife hates when I talk about old cases, so let’s get this show on the road.”

“Got it,” Walt said, reaching into the breast pocket of his sport coat and pulling out a piece of paper.

“I’m reviewing the Cameron Young case.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. American Events, the television show, is planning to produce a documentary about the case. I’m consulting on the project and came across something I need your opinion on.” Walt laid the piece of paper on the counter and pointed at it. “I found this forensics report . . . well, not hidden, exactly, but not made available at the time of the investigation.”

The doctor squinted his eyes as he looked at Walt. “Who was the prosecutor?”

“Maggie Greenwald.”

“Oh, say no more. Square Peg Maggie. She had a knack for making evidence disappear.”