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where there are other cars around you. Don’t lock the driver’s-side door. Leave the money in a sack—one of those brown grocery sacks would be best—on the floor on the driver’s side. Walk over to Washington Avenue . . . Do you know your way around over there?”
    “Yes. I went to school there.” She’d spent seven years at the university.
    “Good. Walk over to Washington, then walk down to the river. After you get to the river, it’s up to you. Whenever you want, walk back to the car. I’ll lock it when I leave it. And all the time, you’ll be out in the open, in public. Safe.”
    “What if somebody takes the money before you get there?”
    Again, the pleasant chuckle: “Nobody will take the money, Carmel.” The woman said “CAR-mul,” while Carmel always pronounced it “car-MEL.”
    “When?”
    “Right now.”
    “How’d you know I have a Volvo?”
    “I’ve been watching you off and on for a week or so. You drove it down to that Rainbow store the day before yesterday. I wouldn’t have bought that sweet corn, myself; it looked a couple of days too old.”
    “It was,” Carmel said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    • • •

    C ARMEL DID EXACTLY as Rinker asked, taking an extra few minutes in her walk along the Mississippi. When she got back to the car, the door was locked and the money was gone. She drove straight back to her apartment, and when she walked in, the phone was ringing.
    “This is me,” the dry voice said.
    “I hope everything went all right,” Carmel said.
    “Went fine. I’m leaving town, but I wanted you to know that your credit is good. Do you have a pencil?”
    “Yes.”
    “If you ever need me again, call this number”—the woman recited a phone number with a 202 area code that Carmel recognized as downtown Washington, D.C.—“and leave a message on the voice mail that says, ‘Call Patricia Case.’ ”
    “Patricia Case.”
    “Then I’ll call you back within a day.”
    “I don’t think I’ll ever need this.”
    “Don’t count on it; you lawyers have strange ways . . .”
    “Okay. And thanks.”
    “Thank you. ” Click—and the dry voice was gone. T HE PHONE RANG again before she had a chance to turn away.
    “Carmel?” And for the second time that day, her heart was in her throat.
    “Yes?”
    “This is Hale.” Then, like she might not be able to sort out her Hales, he added, “Allen.”
    “Hale. My God, I heard about Barbara. How terrible.” She leaned into the telephone, vibrating with the urgency of the emotion. Tears started at the inner corners of her eyes. Poor Barbara. Poor Hale. A tragedy.
    “Carmel . . . God, I don’t know, I’m so screwed up,” Hale Allen said. “Now the police think maybe I had something to do with it. The murder.”
    “That’s crazy,” Carmel said.
    “Absolutely. They keep asking about how much money I’ll inherit, and Barb’s parents are saying all this crazy stuff . . .”
    “That’s terrible!” He needed help; and he was calling her.
    “Look, what I’m calling to ask is, could you handle this for me? Could you deal with the police? You’re the best I know . . .”
    “Of course,” she said briskly. “Where are you now?”
    “I’m at home. I’m sitting here with all of Barb’s stuff . . . I don’t know what to do.”
    “Sit right there,” Carmel said. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t talk to any more cops. If anyone calls, tell them to talk to me.”
    “Won’t that make them suspicious?” Not the sharpest knife.
    “They already are suspicious, Hale. I know exactly where they’re coming from. It’s stupid, but that’s the way they think. So give them my office number and this number, and do not, do not, talk to them.”
    “Okay.” He sounded better already. “Half an hour?”

    O H, G OD. The thing about Hale Allen, she thought, was his hands. He had these big, competent-looking hands with clean, square nails, and fine dark fuzz on the first joints of his fingers,