Boss Man raised his brows.

“Really?”

I placed my hand over my heart.

“It’s my fondest wish.”

“I’ll pass it along.”

I thanked him for not making me shut his hand in a desk drawer and left.

■■■

Tubby had replaced Jeff at the counter. He lowered his paper.

“Hope you got what you wanted.”

I laid down a five-dollar bill.

“Every little bit helps. Quarters, please.”

“Push and push until you hit a brick wall.” He made a small pile of change instead of bothering to stack it. “The brick wall falls on you.” He clapped once and made a brush-off motion, like Pontius Pilate’s second move.

“Doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

He raised the paper.

“We’ll cover the hole and go about our lives. Always do.”

I walked over to the Galaga machine and sacrificed fifty cents into the slot. The screen dissolved from the credits to its game face. Be cool to say that the teen reflexes were there to pair with the thrill of nostalgia. Wishful thinking. Those two quarters were burnt in under a minute. Clink-clank went another pair down the chute and into Boss Man’s pocket. I died and I died. Oh, but to be a kid again. That’s the advantage of adulthood, though. I no longer possessed the skill, or the extra lives, but I had lots of quarters.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Jeffers Project portfolio was voluminous. Badja Adeyemi had pulled a double-fistful of strings to appropriate confidential corporate and government records. I emailed Ted for assistance. We plundered the database until she uncovered an innocuous folder containing the vital statistics of the Jeffers Colony: names and numbers of administrators (no roll of occupants, alas), and, fortuitously, contact information for Lenny Herzog, the caretaker Boss Man mentioned. I asked her to run a background check on Herzog and report asap.

Next, I tried contacting Dr. Pruitt. The overeducated shithead obviously wanted me to encounter the Mares of Thrace. But why, unless he thought they had some connection to Sean’s death? He artfully dodged my calls and when I stopped by his apartment for a surprise visit, a neighbor informed me the good doctor had jetted off to Europe to spend the holidays with relatives. What timing!

Supper at a greasy spoon, then a phone call to Meg and Devlin. The boy stressed over a class project due before winter vacation. He denied procrastinating on the assignment for several weeks and informed me I needed to get home pronto to help him put it together. I assured him that I could work miracles with construction paper and glue sticks. Meg got back on the line and said, better you than me, be home soon or else. It warmed my heart that she unconsciously referred to her place, and my being there, as home. I asked how the boy was doing and she sighed and said he hadn’t kicked anyone’s ass lately. She sounded relaxed, which meant I’d caught her at a good time—the second glass of wine.