“You have a noon meeting with McLaren at the GG.” Ted didn’t glance up from her monitor. She raised her hand with a piece of memo paper and I plucked it on the way by.

“I hope he’s buying.”

“He’s a lawyer.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means, bring your wallet.”

A detective’s safe should contain a spare gun, unspecified documents, some glossy photos of a dodgy nature, at least two rolls of hundred-dollar bills, and a hideout pistol. I’d hocked the automatic and was down to a fifty and loose fives and ones.

I slipped the fifty into my pocket. Before shutting the safe, I promised the remaining scrabble of cash I’d bring it some company soon.

CHAPTER SIX

Chris McLaren, Esquire, awaited me in Rosendale at the Green Goddess, an upscale dive in the alley-side cellar of a converted church. GG qualified as a speakeasy in the contemporary sense because it blithely ignored state no-smoking laws. Edgar Allan Poe’s spirit mingled with clove and cigar smoke. The chef fixed a mean turkey club. I ordered one of those and a bottle of stout.

Red (his nickname when he played offensive tackle for the Orangemen) handled general legal matters for Coleridge Investigations. Mainly that amounted to negotiating contracts, composing threatening missives on my behalf, or apologizing for my behavior, as the situation warranted.

“Okay, yeah, right, so look,” he said. “I spoke with the stuffed suit, Tampon, Tamblin, what-the-fuck his name is.”

“Adeyemi’s lawyer.”

“More like executor now that Adeyemi is in lockup and either headed for witness protection, the big house, or the grave. Tambour. Tambour, right. Overeducated chode. His money spends, so fuck it.”

“The investigation is a go?” To say I had mixed emotions would be underselling it.

“Adeyemi, being a paranoid motherfucker, planned for this contingency. You are green-lighted.” Red wrote several figures in his memo book, tore the paper out, and pushed it across the table. His hands were as big and blocky as the rest of him. “One-month retainer plus basic expenses. Be in your account by tomorrow. Tambour says to hit him with a biweekly report. Run dry on funds, he’ll discuss bumping up the retainer. I doubt it, so plan accordingly.”

“Okay, tell him I’m on the case.”

He removed a thumb drive from his pocket.

“The insurance investigation, police report, and incidentals. A shitload of incidentals.”

“Incidentals?”

“Adeyemi included a bucketload of info about the Jeffers Project. Documents are diamond-heist-thorough. Must be swell to have pals in the federal government. Some personal material . . . videos of Sean Pruitt’s wedding, public speaking engagements, interviews he did in high school. Off the wall, huh? Help you build a profile.”

“Highlights, please.”

“Didn’t you and Adeyemi go over this?”

“Time to earn.”

Red gestured placatingly.

“Right on. The deceased, one Sean Miles Pruitt. Aged thirty-one and getting no older. Youngest of three. Brother and sister live in Canada and England, respectively. Both flew the coop while he was in middle school. Sean graduated Sonoma State U, cultural anthropology with a side of sociology. Two traffic infractions and nary a blip on the radar otherwise. Happily married, on the surface, at least. Bounced around various jobs until he landed a gig with Diogenes, subsidiary of the Redlick Group. Worked his way from their equivalent of the mail room to Special Operations, security team. Three years after that, he’s a goner.”