I'd had a brilliant idea while I was in the shower. I knew a guy who might help me find Claws. His name was Randy Briggs. Briggs wasn't an elf, but he was only three feet tall. Maybe that was good enough.

I thumbed through my address book and found Briggs' phone number. Briggs was a self-employed computer geek. He usually worked at home. And he usually needed money.

"Hey," I said to him. "I have a job for you. I need an undercover elf."

"I'm not an elf."

"Yes, but you're short."

"Christ," Briggs said. And he hung up.

Probably best to talk to Briggs in person. Unfortunately, I now had a dilemma. I thought there was a possibility that Diesel might go away if I never opened the door and let him in. Problem was, I needed to go out.

I opened the door and looked at Diesel.

"Yeah, I'm still here," he said.

"I need to go someplace."

"No kidding."

"Alone."

"It's the supernatural thing, isn't it? It's still got you weirded out, right?"

"Um..."

He slung an arm around my shoulders. "I bet you think Spider-man is a real cute guy. I bet you think it'd be fun to be friends with a guy like that."

"Maybe..."

"So just pretend I'm Spidey."

I looked at him sideways. "Are you Spidey?"

"No. He's a lot shorter."

I grabbed my bag and my keys and shrugged into my fleece-lined jacket. I locked my front door and took the stairs to the parking lot.

Diesel was right behind me. "We can take my car," he said.

"You have a car?"

There was a black Jaguar parked a few feet from the back entrance to my apartment building. Diesel beeped the Jag open with the remote.

"Wow," I said, "you do okay for an alien."

"I'm not an alien."

"Yeah, you keep saying that, but I don't know what else to call you."

"Call me Diesel."

I angled onto the passenger side seat and buckled in. "It's stolen, right?"

Diesel looked over at me and smiled.

Damn. "We're going to Cloverleaf Apartments on Grand. It's about a mile from here, off Hamilton."

The Cloverleaf apartment building looked a lot like mine. It was a big redbrick cube and strictly utilitarian. Three stories. A front and a back entrance. Parking lot in the rear.

Randy Briggs lived on the second floor. I'd met him a while back in a professional capacity. He'd been accused of carrying a concealed weapon and had failed to appear for a court appearance. I'd dragged him kicking and screaming back into the system. The charge had actually been borderline bogus, and Briggs was ultimately released without penalty.

"And why are we doing this?" Diesel asked, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

"There was a want ad in the paper for toy makers. When I called and inquired about Sandy Claws I got disconnected."