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made fists of my hands to keep the knuckles from freezing, then pounded again.
        I guess I'd been expecting Stokes. The tiny, shawled old lady who hobbled out looked like somebody central casting had designed to be in sentimental Christmas commercials. Except for the eyes. Even in the darkness there was a glow to the eyes that unnerved me-something brutal and selfish and hostile in their blue fire.
        "Yes?" she said, smelling of warmth and scented tea.
        "I'm looking for Harold Stokes?"
        A surprising tartness came into the voice, the bitchy edge making her seem much younger. "So am I, as a matter of fact. He's two hours late. He hasn't brought me my treat tonight."
        "Your treat?"
        "Why, yes," she said, "my son Harold is a good boy. He's brought me a treat every night since he was a little boy." She frowned. "Except for the few months he was married, that is. The woman never approved of him doing that-so he stopped." She shook her head. "She just didn't understand how much Harold loved me, I guess. She seemed very surprised when he told her he wanted to divorce her and move back with me."
        Great, I thought. Just the kind of private detective I want to get involved with. A mama's boy. I sure knew how to pick 'em.
        I fished a business card out of my pocket and handed it over to her.
        "Would you have him call me as soon as he can at my home number?"
        "I'll be happy to," she said, "as long as he's finished bringing me my treat."
        "Right," I said. I nodded and moved down the stairs as quickly as I could.
        I was in my car-becoming aware of how badly I needed a drink-when I saw a red Mazda fastback in my rearview mirror. I recognized him by his hair-the Las Vegas hairdo Merle Wickes affected thanks to the influence of Denny Harris.
        Wickes parked down the street, then walked back and up the same steps I'd just left. I slumped down in the seat.
        He knocked on the door many times before the old lady came out. I must have put her in a bad mood. Her voice was scratchy and irritable as she informed Merle that her darling son Harold wasn't here.
        Merle left, shaking his head, seeming extremely agitated.
        I sat up and watched him move his pudgy body quickly down the street and into his flashy car-once again, Denny-inspired. For several minutes I rested my chin on the steering wheel, staring blankly out at the neighborhood.
        How the hell did Merle Wickes know Stokes, the private detective I'd hired?
        

FOUR
        
        I don't know how long I drove around, or what I saw, or even why I was driving. Every few minutes I would become aware of how my leg twitched, or how a shudder would pass through me and make a momentary spastic out of me, or how an uncomfortable sweat coated my body.
        Of all the possibilities that lay before me, not one of them promised a welcome fate.
        There was a possibility that I would be blamed for Denny's murder. We hadn't gotten along, I'd been out to see him shortly after his death (but would the police believe me that I'd found him already dead?), I might even have been seen leaving his place.
        Then there was the possibility that the Traynor account would be leaving the agency and my financial well-being with it, a well-being heavy with various responsibilities…
        From a 7-Eleven store I bought a six-pack of beer and from my coat pocket I bought some relief with two Valiums. I rode around long enough to feel the tranks start to work on me and feel fatigue dull the edge of my anxiety.
        
***
        
        After my divorce, and before I felt much like falling in love again, I spent many evenings alone in my bachelor apartment feasting on Stouffer's frozen dinners and using self-pity the way other people used drugs. I also got into the habit of approximating a sensory-deprivation tank by sitting in the bathtub, throwing back several