I pulled up in front of my studio apartment at 4:25. I grabbed my shoulder bag and duffel, locked my car, and made my way through the squeaky gate and around to my front door. I left my Smith-Corona in the trunk of my car, intending to take it into the office with me first thing Monday morning. There was no sign of Henry, but the backyard smelled of pot roast and freshly baked bread, both of which he does to perfection. I let myself in and carried my duffel up the spiral stairs to the loft. I’d been telling myself Dietz’s arrival didn’t matter one way or the other, but I postponed my official appearance at Henry’s door until I’d slipped into a change of clothes. I stuck to my standard outfit: black turtleneck, blue jeans, and boots. I didn’t want it to look like I was trying too hard. I skipped the makeup, which I seldom wore in any event. I did floss and brush my teeth, and then stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.

In novels, the protagonist is forever doing this because it affords the author an opportunity to describe the character’s physical traits. That ploy won’t work here because I always look exactly like myself. This can be discouraging. Sometimes when I’m standing in a supermarket checkout line, I’ll spot the cover of a tabloid magazine plastered with candid photos of well-known actresses the paparazzi have caught off guard. What a shock it is to see legendary beauties looking washed-out and furtive, with matted hair, puffy lids, and splotchy complexions; flaws made all the more alarming for the images we carry of them, creamy-skinned and doe-eyed with tresses artfully tousled and sprayed to a hard shine. My looks fall somewhere between the two extremes, but closer to the puffy end. To my credit, I don’t misrepresent my basic attributes with a lot of gunk. Anyone who’s startled to see me looking splotchy hasn’t been paying attention.

It was 4:55 when I knocked on Henry’s back door. I was feeling more curious about Dietz than uneasy, which shows you what a moron I am. Dietz wasn’t due for an hour and I was grateful for a brief interlude alone with Henry so I could fill him in on my trip to Bakersfield.

Henry let me in. He’d already opened a bottle of Chardonnay, resting now in a cooler on the kitchen counter. I grant you it was a teeny tiny bit early for a glass of wine, but how could I refuse the half a glass when he handed it to me? He poured himself a tot of Black Jack over ice and we sat down at the kitchen table.