I don’t keep magazines in my office. I’m not a doctor or a dentist so what’s the point? Someone comes to see me and I’m here, we sit down and talk. If I’m not here, the door’s locked and they have to wait. Sutton didn’t seem any better equipped than I was for chitchat. I’d known the guy one day, and now that we’d gotten the potty question and the mint behind us, conversationally speaking, we had nothing to say to each other. I’m deficient when it comes to small talk, which is probably why I have so few friends.

I sat in my swivel chair, willing the phone to ring, and when it did I jumped.

It was Cheney. “Roosevelt says we can take a couple of crime-scene techs and a K-9 unit out to the site. We’re rounding people up now and should be ready to roll within the hour.”

“Great. That’s great.”

I gave him the address and we spent a few minutes chatting about the logistics. Alita Lane was too narrow to accommodate vehicles and miscellaneous police personnel, so we agreed to meet at the roadside parking strip near the polo field on Via Juliana. That settled, I dropped Sutton off at his house so he could pick up his car.

On the way back to Horton Ravine, I stopped at McDonald’s and scarfed down a Quarter Pounder and fries. I wasn’t sure how long the excavation would take and I wanted to make sure I had a wholesome meal under my belt. The soft drink I ordered was a small one. No point in taxing my bladder when relief wouldn’t be in range.

I arrived before Cheney did and used the time to change into an old pair of running shoes I kept in the trunk of my car. I hauled out my navy windbreaker and shrugged into that as well. The light was still good, but the sun was sinking, taking the pleasant daytime temperatures with it.

Sutton arrived in his MG and parked beside my Mustang. He had the top down and Madaline, the ex-addict, was in the car with him, which annoyed me no end. This wasn’t date night and it wasn’t a public spectacle. We were dealing with life and death and I didn’t want her hanging around like she was part of the scene. Goldie Hawn, Madaline’s golden retriever, sat on her lap, with her chin resting on the lowered window. I’d swear the dog knew who I was and sent me a loopy doggie smile by way of recognition. Madaline’s circulation must have taken a beating with eighty pounds of dog planted on her thighs. As I watched, she lifted a beer can to her lips and treated herself to a sip. So much for open-container laws.