When Letitia removed her coat, I could see that what I’d thought was a business suit was really a wool skirt and matching vest with big mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. The fit was tight and I was betting she was in denial about the extra thirty pounds she’d gained the day she reached menopause. The skirt waist had inched up her midriff, which shortened the hem to a coquettish three inches above her knees. The lapels on her vest no longer met in the front, but that might have been due to the size of her breasts, which threatened to topple her.

In her smoke-husky voice, she said to Dietz, “How’d you get tied up with Pete Wolinsky? You know he’s a deadbeat.”

“That’s our Pete,” Dietz said, equably. “On the other hand, his wife’s a lovely woman who’s now facing the mess he left.”

That netted him no response.

Dietz allowed his gaze to skirt the room. “What happened to his office furniture? Ruthie intended to have it moved to the house.”

“And I was supposed to know this how? She hasn’t even bothered to get in touch.”

“A call from you might not have been out of line. She had a lot on her mind.”

“I sold his stuff for two hundred bucks and that included that rickety rolling chair of his. I couldn’t even give away that piece-of-shit typewriter, so I tossed it in the trash.”

“Too bad. That was a collector’s item.”

“Liar,” she said.

Dietz smiled. “What about his file cabinets?”

“You’re looking at ’em. I took those for my own use.”

“All we’re interested in is the contents. She needs his business records for tax purposes.”

“It’s all in boxes.”

“Mind if we take a look?”

“Actually, I do mind. He died owing me a bundle. I thought you were here to haggle over his back rent. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Words to that effect.”

“Think of his files as collateral.”

“In other words, if his wife wants them back she’ll have to come up with the ransom money.”

“Why would she not? Somebody’s gotta pay me. I got fifteen boxes of his crap.”

“All worthless,” Dietz said.

“Must have some value or why would you be here?”

“We thought we might take it all off your hands and save you a trip to the dump.”

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “You’d have to have a signed authorization. Otherwise, I can’t be handing over his private papers. I’m sure there’s a law against that.”

Dietz smiled. “Signed authorization. I’m happy you mentioned it.”

He took out his wallet and removed four one-hundred-dollar bills, which he fanned out for her inspection. “These are signed by the secretary of the Treasury, James Baker. Remember him? Reagan’s old chief of staff.”

He held the bills up.