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six months. Irretrievably broken and all that.”
    “So the first statement I take is from you,” I said.
    He showed the hint of a smile. “Should I have my alibi ready?”
    I looked at him hard. His girlfriend’s body was drawing flies and he makes a little joke. A used little joke.
    “I don’t show much emotion,” Fox said, reading my mind. “Not in public, anyway. Maybe tonight I’ll get drunk by myself. Maybe I’ll put my fist through a wall. But that’s none of your business. Your job is to find the slime that did this, get an indictment, and try the case.”
    Through the glass I saw Pamela Maxson talking to Detective Rodriguez. He was nodding and making notes on a little pad. Across the street the ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds. Traffic crept along Ocean Drive, young people cruising at a pace to see and be seen.
    I came in and told Rodriguez what I wanted. A computer whiz to print out everything inside the beige box on Marsha Diamond’s desk and the disks in her drawer. All her address books, appointment schedules, credit-card receipts, a list of her friends, relatives, and coworkers, and a chronology of her daily routine. I wanted statements from her gynecologist, her hairdresser, her pharmacist, her landlady, her maid, and her masseuse. I wanted to know every man she dated in the last three years and anyone she met in the last three months. Did any deliverymen bring her groceries or furniture or laundry? Where was she every minute of the last week? Within forty-eight hours, I wanted to know more about Marsha Diamond than her best friend, her mother, or her lover ever did.
    It wasn’t asking too much. Anyone who cares to can know everything about us. Somewhere, I am sure, there is a giant computer that stores a thousand megabytes about each of us. What we got in geography and who we took to the senior prom. Where we eat, what we buy, who we call. How much money we make and how much we give away. What airlines we use, where we sleep, how much we spend on clothes, booze, and pills. Traffic tickets, domestic disputes, diplomas, and the books we buy. Modern life is one sweeping, cradle-to-grave invasion of privacy. An encroachment on our ever-narrowing space. Behind us we leave a trail of carbon copies and floppy disks. Fodder for the snoop and the historian alike.
    In the twenty-first century, they tell us, our houses will be smaller, our lawns nonexistent. We’ll work at home and recycle our garbage into compost. Our bathroom scale will record our weight, pulse, and blood pressure, and transmit the information to the company physician and anyone else with the right seven-digit password. The computer will link us with the office, the grocery store, and each other. The paper trail will be obsolete, but in its place, microscopic chips and laser scanners will transcribe details even the most astute biographer would overlook.
     
    ***
     
    “Lassiter, come take a look back here.”
    It was Rodriguez, motioning me through the bedroom and toward the bathroom. I moseyed back there and stood, filling the doorway, peeking over Charlie Riggs’ shoulder. It was old-fashioned but clean, a small porcelain sink, shower stall, and toilet crammed into a room without a window. There were powders and perfumes and white fluffy towels, and on the mirror above the sink was a message scrawled in blood red lipstick: Catch me if you can, Mr. Lusk.
    “We got ourselves a show-off,” I said. “Now, who the hell is Mr. Lusk?”
    “Probably some guy she was playing tag with,” Rodriguez said, “and it looks like he caught her.”
    In the mirror I saw Charlie’s jaw drop in astonishment. It was not his usual expression. He moved closer, as if the image might disappear at any moment. “Pamela, come here please!”
    In a moment Pamela Maxson joined the party. And there the four of us stood. I hoped somebody knew more than I did.
    “Mr. Lusk.” Pamela’s voice trembled.
    “Yes, Mr. Lusk,” Charlie said.
    “You know the