“He showed up first at the back of our property. Made nice with Carlo. Helped him move his telescope.”

“He sounds like a real threat to the public weal. Brigid. It’s Arizona, and people are friendlier than in the East. Strangers wave. You’ve been here several years now. Get used to it. Have you got anything I can use?”

Max put up a finger to keep me from answering while a waitress came up behind me and put a dish of salsa and a basket of tortilla chips on the table between us. “That’s not the hot, did you want hot?” she asked, referring to the salsa. Then she took a pad out of her apron pocket to take our order. Max was about to shake his head impatiently, but Carlota’s was my Mexican restaurant (everyone in Tucson has this kind of loyalty) and I didn’t want any hard feelings no matter what was going on. “I’ll have the topopo salad with pulled pork, please,” I said, handing her the menu I didn’t need to look at because I had it memorized.

She seemed satisfied that the order was large enough even though Max was only having an iced tea.

“When I was checking to see who might have gotten out and I hadn’t been notified, I found out about this guy. Jeremiah Beaufort, a petty drug dealer who got let out with that recent release of nonviolent criminals.”

“So. He was in prison. And he’s not even paroled, his sentence was commuted. You’re still not making a connection.”

“With all his visiting, why didn’t it ever come up in conversation?”

“You’re being overly sensitive. He’s not a sex offender, Brigid. It’s not like he has to register. He was under no obligation to tell you he’s an ex-con. How did you even find out about him?”

I took a deep breath. “I found out where he was living, in one of those prefab jobs on Hawser. I lifted his print off the door handle and had it run.”

“Good God, woman. And you say he’s being creepy?”

“You don’t trust me,” I said.

He gave me one of those no shit looks. Ignoring it, I told Max about everything, the vibe I got from the woman Jerry lived with, the fact that the pugs hadn’t objected to the burglar, and … the pièce de résistance … how he might have disabled my brakes. As I said all these things, they seemed rather less compelling than when I had thought them earlier that day. I could see by his face that he was thinking the same thing.

Max dipped a chip into the salsa now that he figured he was dealing with a nonissue and was allowing himself to relax a little. His tone was condescending as he asked, “If you think he’s after you, what’s his motivation?”