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I’m shocked about the current state of affairs. Given those parties and organizations we are up against, your military experience is essential.”
    I took the package out of the basket and put it in the pocket of my sport coat. “I’m a parent, too,” I said. “I have three sons and I don’t always like what they do.”
    Van Pelham issued me a nod and a “Yeah,” stifled down to a grunt.
    â€œEven when they make me angry I don’t love them any less, but I do know about that little voice. The one that asks those hard questions, like, ‘Where did I screw up as a parent?’ And, ‘My God, what will people think?’ Nothing I can do will make that better for you. Five thousand dollars’ worth of conscience money doesn’t buy you the right to use me as a scapegoat if this all goes to hell.”
    I paused and locked hard eyes with his. He chose not to say what roiled behind the sneer that washed over his face. Against my better judgment I said, “If we are joined at the hip for the sole purpose of protecting your niece’s life, then I’ll do the job. I’ll risk my health, my life, and my license for forty-eight hours. You know the terms.”
    â€œI’ll have the check and a contract at my reception desk by one-thirty.”
    â€œIs there anything else you need to tell me?”
    Van Pelham shook his head and slid his chair back from the table.
    â€œThey ever catch the shooter who parked his trophy at the airport?”
    Van Pelham stood up and said, “I think they’re going to get him very soon.” He turned and walked out of the diner.

2
    I picked up the mail at the Station C Post Office in Gas Light Village—an enclave of trendy restaurants and used-book stores where the streets are paved in red brick and illuminated by gaslights at night. Flipping through the envelopes, I found a new case from Atlantic Casualty and a couple of circulars from the computer search companies—but no money. I ripped the circulars in half and dropped them in the trash. If they were the future for the detective business, Marg was right: It was time to think of a retirement plan.
    A short drive to Kentwood, the first suburb south of Grand Rapids, took me back to my office among the lawyers, dentists, and insurance adjusters that infest the row of three-story brick office buildings west of Breton Avenue on Forty-fourth Street. My first-floor space is down a flight of stairs and sort of half in the basement, where we occupy a location with a big window on the central court meant for a coffee shop or hair salon, both of which I threaten to open monthly.
    Marg sat at her desk doing a diet soda and bag lunch when I strolled in the door. She pushed a couple of message slips at me as I passed her desk. One was from Virginia Hampton, the insurance adjuster I had spoken with this morning. I returned her call, but she’d gone to lunch and my call got diverted to her voice mail. The second slip informed me of an “urgent” call from Ron Craig, a good friend but also an energetic competitor.
    Ron had worked in the private sector for the past several years. “Budget considerations” used to trim the CIA had cut short his budding career as a public servant.
    I called his office but his answering service picked up. They said they’d page him. A recording reported his cell phone “temporarily out of service.”
    â€œMarg, I got a question,” I said as I walked into the front office. She looked up with her soda in one hand and a pickle in the other. “If I sell a job for five thousand, what do I net out?”
    â€œYou?” she said with a laugh. “You and the word ‘net’ are never mentioned in the same breath. I gave you twenty dollars this morning. What have you got left?”
    â€œBuck and a half.”
    â€œI rest my case.”
    â€œWhat’s left after the government has had its