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space behind the desk as if he owned it. She got the impression that was the way it was with any place he happened to inhabit at any particular moment. Something that just sort of happened to him; something he took for granted.
    She wished that she could get a better look at his eyes, but the reflection on his glasses concealed them as effectively as the steel helmets hid the features of the armored figures beyond the windows.
    He pushed the photograph toward her across the battered desk and reached out to switch on the small desk lamp. She watched, unwillingly fascinated, as the beam fell on one large powerful-looking hand. No wedding ring, she noticed. Not that you could be sure a man was unmarried just because he didn’t happen to wear a ring.
    With an effort, she tore her gaze away from his hand and focused on the photo. It featured a horse and rider garbed in flamboyantly styled armor that looked as if it had been designed for a video game or dreamed up by an artist for the cover of a science fiction fantasy novel. She recognized it as a fairly accurate reproduction of the elaborately embellished armor crafted during the Renaissance. Such impractical styles had never been intended for the battlefield. They had been created for the sole purpose of making the wearer look good in ceremonies, festivals and parades.
    The photo itself was an amateurish shot. Poorly lit. The kind of picture that a tourist might have snapped with a throw-away camera.
    She looked up and peered into the shadows where Easton’s face was supposed to be. All she could see was the hard angle of a grim jaw and the hollows beneath high, ascetic cheekbones. There was nothing soft or open about him. She had the feeling that Easton had learned long ago not to expect too much from the world other than what he could seize for himself.
    “Fifteenth century, judging from the helmet and breastplate,” she said. “Italian in style.” “In style” was a polite way of saying “reproduction.”
    “I’m aware of that, Miss Briggs,” Easton said with icy patience. “But if you look closely, you can see a portion of another display behind the horse’s, uh, rear.”
    She took a closer look. Sure enough, if she looked past the tail of the fake horse, she could just make out thedimly lit image of a standing figure garbed in heavily decorated steel.
    “Half-armor,” she murmured. It was always good policy to impress the client, even if you weren’t particularly interested in the job. Word of mouth was important. “In the style of the northern Italian armorers of the sixteenth century. Looks like part of a garniture meant for jousting at the barriers. Suits of armor from this era often consisted of dozens of supplementary and interchangeable pieces that allowed the set to be modified for specific uses. Sort of like a modern all-in-one tool kit.”
    “It’s the helmet that we’re interested in here,” Mack said.
    She peered at it. The bad lighting made it difficult to see much detail. “What about it?”
    “It’s the only piece that was stolen.”
    She looked up. “Is there a better photo around?”
    One of the two men who hovered near the far end of the desk, the individual who went by the name Dewey, edged closer with a crablike movement.
    “Lucky to have that one,” he said, sounding apologetic.
    She could only guess at Dewey’s age. His face was a worn and weathered map that could have belonged to a man of fifty or seventy. He was dressed in military surplus complete with camouflage fatigues, battered boots and a wide leather belt. His graying hair was caught in a scruffy ponytail secured with a rubber band. She would not have been surprised to learn that he commuted to and from work on a very large motorcycle.
    It was hard to imagine that he was representative of Lost and Found’s typical clientele. How in the world had he and his partner managed to find the very-hard-to-find Mack Easton? More to the point, why had Mack agreed to help them?