I walked to m Street, in a light rain that was turning to sleet, and in significant pain.

Parking would've been impossible on Friday night. And I hoped to stretch my muscles

some, and clear my head.

The meeting could be nothing but trouble, and I prepped for it as I walked. I thought of

lies to cover my trail, and more lies to cover the first set. Now that I had stolen, the lying

didn't seem like such a big deal. Hector might be working for the firm; there was a

chance he could be wired. I would listen carefully, and say little.

Nathan's was only half-full. I was ten minutes early, but he was there, waiting for me in a

small booth. As I approached he suddenly jumped from his seat and thrust a hand at me.

"You must be Michael. I'm Hector Palma, from real estate. Nice to meet you."

It was an assault, a burst of personality that put me on my heels. I shook hands, reeling,

and said something like, "Nice to meet you."

He pointed to the booth. "Here, have a seat," he said, all warmth and smiles. I delicately-

bent and squeezed my way into the booth.

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

"I kissed an air bag."

"Yeah, I heard about the accident," he said quickly. Very quickly. "Are you okay? Any

broken bones?"

"No," I said slowly, trying to read him.

"Heard the other guy got killed," he said, a split second after I'd spoken. He was in charge

of this conversation. I was supposed to follow along.

"Yeah, some drug dealer."

"This city," he said, as the waiter appeared. "What'll you have?" Hector asked me.

"Black coffee," I said. At that moment, as he pondered his choice of drinks, one of his

feet began tapping me on the leg.

"What kind of beer do you have?" he asked the waiter, a question they hated. The waiter

looked straight ahead and began rattling off brands.

The tapping brought our eyes together. His hands were together on the table. Using the

waiter as a shield, he barely curled his right index finger and pointed to his chest.

"Molson," he announced suddenly, and the waiter left.

He was wired, and they were watching. Wherever they were, they couldn't see through

the waiter. Instinctively, I wanted to turn and examine the other people in the bar. But I

withstood the temptation, thanks in no small part to a neck as pliable as a board.

That explained the hearty hello, as if we'd never met. Hector had been grilled all day, and

he was denying everything.

"I'm a paralegal in real estate," he explained. "You've met Braden Chance, one of our

partners."

"Yes." Since my words were being recorded, I would offer little.

"I work primarily for him. You and I spoke briefly one day last week when you visited

his office."

"If you say so. I don't remember seeing you."

I caught a very faint smile, a relaxing around the eyes, nothing a surveillance camera

could catch. Under the table, I tapped his leg with my foot. Hopefully we were dancing to

the same tune.

"Look, the reason I asked you to meet me is because a file is missing from Braden's

office."

"Am I the accused?"

"Well, no, but you're a possible suspect. It was the file you asked for when you sort of

barged into his office last week."

"Then I am being accused," I said hotly.

"Not yet. Relax. The firm is doing a thorough investigation of the matter, and we're

simply talking to everyone we can think of. Since I heard you ask Braden for the file, the

firm instructed me to talk to you. It's that simple."

"I don't know what you're talking about. It's that simple."

"You know nothing about the file?"

"Of course not. Why would I take a file from a partner's office?"

"Would you take a polygraph?"

"Certainly," I said firmly, even indignantly. There was no way in hell I would take a

polygraph.

"Good. They're asking all of us to do it. Everybody remotely near the file."

The beer and coffee arrived, giving us a brief pause to evaluate and reposition. Hector

had just told me he was in deep trouble. A polygraph would kill him. Did you meet

Michael Brock before he left the firm? Did you discuss the missing file? Did you give

him copies of anything taken from the file? Did you assist him in obtaining the missing

file? Yes or no. Hard questions with simple answers. There was no way he could lie and

survive the test.

"They're fingerprinting too," he said. He said this in a lower voice, not in an effort to

avoid the hidden mike, but rather to soften the blow.

It didn't work. The thought of leaving prints had never occurred to me, neither before the

theft, nor since. "Good for them," I said.

"In fact, they lifted prints all afternoon. From the door, the light switch, the file cabinet.

Lots of prints."

"Hope they find their man."

"It's really coincidental, you know. Braden had a hundred active files in his office, and

the only one missing is the one you were quite anxious to see."

"Are you trying to say something?"

"I just said it. A real coincidence." He was doing this for the benefit of our listeners.

I thought perhaps I should perform too. "I don't like the way you said it," I practically

yelled at him. "If you want to accuse me of something, then go to the cops, get a warrant,

and get me picked up. Otherwise, keep your stupid opinions to yourself."

"The cops are already involved," he said, very coolly, and my contrived temper melted.

"It's a theft."

"Of course it's a theft. Go catch your thief and stop wasting your time with me."

He took a long drink. "Did someone give you a set of keys to Braden's office?"

"Of course not."

"Well, they found this empty file on your desk, with a note about the two keys. One to the

door, the other to a file cabinet."

"I know nothing about it," I said, as arrogantly as possible while trying to remember the

last place I'd put the empty file. My trail was widening. I'd been trained to think like a

lawyer, not a criminal.

Another long drink by Hector, another sip of coffee by me.

Enough had been said. The messages had been delivered, one by the firm, the other by

Hector himself. The firm wanted the file back, with its contents uncompromised. Hector

wanted me to know that his involvement could cost him his job.

It was up to me to save him. i could return the file, confess, promise to keep it sealed, and

the firm would probably forgive me. There would be no harm. Protecting Hector's job

could be a condition of the return.

"Anything else?" I asked, suddenly ready to leave.

"Nothing. When can you do the polygraph?"

"I'll give you a call."

I picked up my coat and left.

________________________________________________________________

Sixteen

For reasons that I would soon understand, Mordecai had an intense dislike for District

cops, even though most were black. In his opinion, they were rough on the homeless, and

that was the standard he invariably used to measure good and bad.

But he knew a few. One was Sergeant Peeler, a man described by Mordecai as "from the

streets." Peeler worked with troubled kids in a community center near the legal clinic,

and he and Mordecai belonged to the same church. Peeler had contacts, and could pull

enough strings to get me to my car.

He walked into the clinic shortly after nine Saturday morning. Mordecai and I were

drinking coffee and trying to stay warm. Peeler didn't work Saturdays. I got the