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around to the driver’s window of the El Camino, motioning for Logan to roll it down.
    “We’re on the first floor near the back. One twenty-three and one twenty-four,” Harp said. He handed one of the keys through the window, then headed off after his WAMO buddy.
    As soon as Logan was parked in front of the rooms, they all got their bags out of the back and split up. Logan’s room was a balmy eight-two degrees, so he fiddled with the thermostat until the air conditioner clicked on. The temperature was just starting to get bearable when his phone rang.
    “Fulkerson said he’d see you whenever you could get to his office,” Callie told him.
    “Hold on.” Logan searched for paper and a pen, finding them in the nightstand drawer. “All right. What’s his address?”
    She gave it to him. “Call me if you need anything else. Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”
    When Logan stopped by Harp and Barney’s room on the way out, his dad, of course, wanted to come along, but Logan told him it would be easier if he saw Joe Fulkerson on his own.
    As he was starting up his car, Harp rushed out of his room.
    Logan leaned through his open window. “Dad, I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”
    “What?” Harp said, confused.
    “I need to do this alone.”
    “You already made that clear. I just…I just forgot something.”
    Now it was Logan’s turn to be confused.
    Harp pointed toward the passenger side of the truck. Sitting on the bench seat was the padded envelope Callie had given Harp back in Sausalito. Logan could see the copy of Lost Horizon sitting just inside it. He picked up the package and passed it to his dad.
    “Thank you,” Harp said, clutching it with one arm against his torso.
    Logan could see a million thoughts and emotions racing through his father’s eyes. He wished he knew the right thing to say, something that would get his father to open up and talk, but he was afraid anything he might try would cause Harp to clam up completely.
    So Logan simply smiled and said, “No problem.”
    __________
     
    J OE FULKERSON’S OFFICE was in an old, brown, brick building several miles from the university. The sign on the door said FNR Investigations, and it appeared to take up half of the fourth floor.
    Logan waited in the lobby for less than two minutes before an older Latina led him into the inner workings of FNR. The few single offices he saw were along the outside walls, taking up prime window territory. Most of the employees, though, seemed to work in a large bullpen area of high walled cubicles.
    Fulkerson was not in a cubicle. He had a corner office that looked toward the smog-hidden mountains. His desk was an old metal monstrosity that seemed out of place with the rest of the furnishings. Joe was sitting behind the desk, squinting at a computer monitor. He was a thin, middle-aged man who’d buzzed what little hair he had left on his head as close to his skin as he could without shaving it off. It was what Joaquin back at Dunn Right liked to call the full Captain Picard.
    “Mr. Fulkerson?” the woman said. “This is Mr. Harper.”
    Fulkerson immediately rose from his chair, a large smile appearing on his face. With unnecessary enthusiasm, he came around the desk and extended his hand.
    “Mr. Harper. Thanks for coming down.”
    They shook.
    “You can call me Logan.”
    “And I’m Joe.” Fulkerson glanced at the woman. “Thank you, Mary.”
    She smiled and left.
    Fulkerson motioned toward the guest chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.” Once they were both settled, he said, “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
    “I’m fine, thank you.”
    They looked at each other for a moment, then Fulkerson leaned forward. “So Mrs. Johnson says you have some questions?”
    “Yes, about the Lindley case,” Logan said.
    “Right.” Fulkerson looked at his computer screen, moved the mouse, and clicked a few keys on the keyboard. “What can I help you