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for some twelve years already, but he still used all the tricks and appurtenances, the perks of being on the job. His blank book of parking tickets was no doubt more than a decade old by now, but the meter maids would still observe the shibboleth and spare him a fifty-dollar ticket. “Congratulations, by the way.”
    “For what?”
    “For winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes, what the hell you think? For Lambert.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You realize you’re total an-thee-ma to your fellow women now.” He meant “anathema.” “They’re never going to let you into NOW.”
    “I never thought much about joining. Come in, make yourself at home. Have a seat.”
    He entered her office tentatively, ill-at-ease. Devereaux never liked meeting with her at her office, her turf. He preferred to meet at his lair, a fake-wood-paneled office suite in South Boston adorned with framed diplomas and certificates, where he was czar. He stopped before one of the visitor chairs and glowered down at it, as if unsure what it was. The chair suddenly looked dainty next to him. He pointed straight down at it and grinned. When he smiled, he was a ten-year-old boy, not a forty-seven-year-old private investigator.
    “You got something I won’t break?”
    “Take mine.” Claire got up from her high-backed leather desk chair and switched places with Devereaux. He took her seat without objection, now comfortably enthroned behind her desk. A fillip of authority symbolism, she figured, would put him at ease.
    “So, you rang,” Devereaux said. He leaned way back in her chair and folded his arms across his belly. The chair creaked ominously.
    “I called you, but I didn’t leave a message,” she said, confused.
    “Caller ID. Recognized your number on the box. So what’s this about, Lambert again? I thought you were done with that sleazeball.”
    “It’s something else, Ray. I need your help.” She told him about last night: the mall, the agents pursuing Tom, his disappearance, the search of their house.
    Slowly Ray leaned forward until both of his feet were on the ground. “You’re shittin’ me,” he said.
    She shook her head.
    He pursed his lips, jutted them out like a blowfish. He closed his eyes. A long, dramatic pause. He was said to be excellent at interrogations. “I know a guy,” he said at last. “Knew him from my FBI days. Probably looking to get out. Maybe I’ll offer him a job with me.”
    “You’re going to hire someone?”
    “I said offer .”
    “Well, be discreet. Fly below the radar, you know? Don’t let them know why you’re interested.”
    Devereaux scowled. “Now you’re going to tell me how to do my job? I don’t tell you about torts—or whatever the hell it is you teach.”
    “Point taken. Sorry. But could this whole thing be a mistake, a misunderstanding?”
    Devereaux stared at the ceiling for a long moment, for maximum dramatic effect. “It’s unlikely,” he said. “Count on the fact they’ve got your phones bugged. And a trap-and-trace on Tom’s office, your home—”
    “My office here, too?”
    “Why not, sure.”
    “I want you to sweep my phones.”
    Devereaux gave a sardonic smile. “‘Sweep’ your phones? If they’re doing this outta the central office, which I’m sure they are, I’m not going to find anything. I’ll sweep if you want, but don’t expect anything. Anyway, even if I did find something, I can’t remove it if it’s legal.”
    “Does that mean, if he calls me to check in, they can trace the call and find out where he is?”
    “I’m sure that’s what they want. But it’s gotten a lot harder these days. You just buy one of those prepaid phone cards, and in effect the service is making the call for you, so it’s impossible to trace.”
    “He left me a voice-mail message.”
    “Where? Here or at home?”
    “Home.”
    “They can access that, no problem. Don’t need any secret code. If they’ve got a warrant, NYNEX is going to let them listen to any