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formed a tight line. “When you’re dealing with big names, politics could’ve been involved.”
    “And?”
    She sighed. “Maybe the detective on the case didn’t want to point fingers at the wrong people.”
    “Like Powell. He was supposed to have some Mafia connections.”
    She nodded at my backpack leaning against my chair. It was partially open and she could see the three old file folders. “He’s mentioned in one of your cases?”
    “Yes.”
    “What are they about?” she asked.
    I gave her the Readers’ Digest version of the two I’d looked at so far.
    “What about the third?”
    “It was a woman who wanted Dewey to track down a valuable painting, but that’s all I know so far,” I said. “The only other ‘name’,” I said, making air quotes with my hands, “mentioned in the files is Felipe Moretti.”
    “Felipe ‘Fat Phil’ Moretti.”
    “You have heard of him.”
    She nodded. “I did a bit of research on the Mafia a while back, for a case,” she said. “Moretti wasn’ta nice guy. ” She drained her cup and set it down with a thump. “I have to get back to work.” She gestured at my files. “If your client’s right, someone who’s desperate enough to steal those files might be desperate enough to come after you to get them.”
    “I’ve thought of that.” I winked. “But they have to find me.”
    That brought an amused look. “Just remember, your charm can’t protect you.” She stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
    “Thank you for the information,” I said.
    She turned and walked away, and a minute later, her blue ’65 Ford Mustang drove down the street. I watched until it turned onto 10 th , and then I sipped my latte and read about Dewey’s third case.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Dewey Webb – 1955
     
    When I returned to my office, a tall, thin brunette was pacing in the hallway. I pegged her age at around thirty. She wore a striped dress with a swing skirt, black heels, and white gloves, but no jewelry. Her hair was lots of soft curls, and she had steel-gray eyes that carried caution in them, and a pert little nose that she scratched nervously.
    “Are you Mr. Dewey Webb?” she asked with the trace of a European accent.
    “I am,” I said as I unlocked the door. “What can I do for you?”
    “My name is Rachel Cohen. I would like to talk to you.”
    “Come on in.”
    I entered the tiny waiting room, then gestured for her to come into my office. It was small, with an oak desk, a small leather couch against one wall, two club chairs facing the desk, and a file cabinet in one corner. It was utilitarian, all I needed since I didn’t spend much time there.
    I gestured at one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” I walked around the desk, tossed my hat on the couch, and sat down. I steepled my hands and looked at her. “How can I help you?”
    The gray eyes studied me. “Were you in the war?”
    I nodded. “Germany. I was there at the end.” It wasn’t hard to guess. A lot of men my age served in the war. I was one of the lucky ones who came back.
    “You have a look about you.”
    “What look?”
    “As if someone – or something – haunts you.”
    I kept a straight face, not wanting to acknowledge her perceptiveness. I had indeed returned with ghosts. I’d seen a lot of destruction and death, and I’d been a part of things as well, the kind of things that stayed with you and crept into your thoughts, creating nightmares.
    “And your accent?” I asked, seeing the wariness in her eyes.
    “I’m from Austria. We came to the United States in 1938.”
    I wondered if she’d emigrated legally or if she’d had to escape the Nazis some other way, but I didn’t ask. If she wanted to tell me, she would.
    She glanced around, then sank into the chair. “I want to hire you to find a painting.”
    “A painting?”
    “Yes. The painting is a Matisse. My father bought it a number of years before the war and it was very valuable.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “I don’t know what it