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this area," he said bitterly. "The Coast Guard should police it and hand out speeding tickets."
    "You're in a bad mood."
    "You bet." He picked up his empty Tom Collins glass and signaled one of the waitresses. "Another one of these. And one for my friend."
    "Has anything changed since you called?" I asked.
    "Just more of the same. If the cops don't find Ira soon, I don't know what will happen." He jiggled the ice in his glass for a few seconds, gathering the nerve to make his pitch. "I'd like to hire you again, Harry; if you're available."
    I couldn't say that I didn't know it was coming. "Len, I don't think that's a good idea."
    "Why?" he said, looking hurt.
    "A couple of reasons. First, it's a police case now, and they don't much like private investigators snooping in an ongoing investigation. Second, the family doesn't want me around. And without their approval, I lose my legal excuse to butt in."
    "I'm Ira's partner," he said stoutly. "Don't I have a legitimate reason to hire an investigator?"
    "Yeah," I admitted, "you do."
    "I want someone I trust to work on this thing. Someone who can talk to the cops."
    "The cops may not talk to me, either, Len."
    "I'll take that chance."
    "And if it turns out that Lessing's dead?"
    As I spoke the waitress arrived with the drinks. She put the glasses down awkwardly, as if she'd been startled by what she'd overheard. Trumaine ignored her, snatching up his Tom Collins and draining half of it in a gulp.
    "Christ, I'm drinking a lot," he said to himself, and swallowed the rest of the drink, as if he were proving the point. Flushing, he smacked the glass down hard on the table. "I just want this to end, Harry, even if Ira is . . . dead. At least Janey will stop holding her breath. I'm sure that's what Ira would want for her too."
    It sounded like a fond hope to me from what I'd seen of Janey Lessing.
    "She's very attached to him," I said cautiously.
    But he didn't take it the way I'd meant it.
    "Sure she's attached. Ira has been a wonderful influence on her. Janey was a very unhappy girl before they met. Neurotic, shy, totally inhibited around strangers, dominated by her father. I realize that you've only seen her at her worst, but she really did blossom when she got married. Ira made her happy."
    He said this with a touch of melancholy, as if that was an achievement he admired but couldn't bring off on his own.
    "Didn't you tell me that you were their matchmaker?"
    Trumaine smiled wistfully. "I wanted them to get married, yes. I knew he'd be good for her. Ira's got an orderly mind, and that's something that Janey has lacked all her life -a sense of order, a sense of security. And he's a truly kind man. I mean . . . look at me. You wouldn't think a blueblood like Ira Lessing would want to be seen with a slob like me. Much less go into business with him. From the moment I met Ira in college he was a friend. He helped me through my courses; he loaned me money when I ran low; he gave my life new direction. What did I have to give him in return?" He spread his hands as if he held Janey there, like an aura. "Sure, I introduced them. He's the best friend I've ever had."
    He'd worked himself up to a pitch of gratitude, helped along by the alcohol. But I'd seen him around Janey, and I knew that it must have hurt to give her away, even to a best friend.
    "Please, Harry," Len Trumaine pleaded. "Help me get this thing under control."
    Against my better judgment, I said I'd help.
 
 
    8
    I could have waited until Monday morning to talk to the cops. But I was feeling sorry for Len Trumaine as I drove away from Mike Fink's. So instead of going home once I crossed the river, I drove north on Central Parkway, uptown through the fierce glare of the afternoon sun, to the Cincinnati Police Building on Ezzard Charles.
    I found Art Finch in the Homicide bullpen on the second floor of the CPB, sitting at a battered desk, a dead cigarette butt clenched between his teeth like a carpet tack. Behind him, in a