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would assume it doesn’t corroborate a thing. The fact that it’s possible doesn’t make it likely. Unless you can come up with a reason why someone would do that, to assume it makes no sense.” I looked at Richard. “Am I close?”
    “You’re dead on. So, we should be able to dismiss that theory.
    “Which was yours to begin with.”
    Richard raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me. You think a lawyer shouldn’t raise points for fear they might turn out to be inconclusive?”
    I put up my hand. “Richard, let’s not go off on a tangent. The fact is, we’re in agreement. In all probability this letter did not arrive in the morning mail. Right?”
    “I think it’s a logical assumption.”
    “So, where did it come from?”
    Richard pursed his lips. “I would say there were two possibilities. One, someone prepared it and left it on your client’s desk. Most likely in an envelope—you’ll notice it’s folded to fit one. In that case, the envelope would not have gone through the mail. It might have had your client’s name on it, it might have been a plain envelope, and it might not have even been sealed.
    “The second possibility is that your client did it himself. In which case he folded it so he could claim it had come in the mail. In either case, that’s why he was so reluctant to produce the envelope, and eventually couldn’t do so.” Richard frowned. “This is all so simplistic, I can’t believe you haven’t already figured it out yourself.”
    “Actually, I have.”
    “Then what are you doing here?”
    “I told you. I want your advice.”
    “On what?”
    “What’s my legal responsibility here? This man has hired me to do a job. Now I find myself in a position where I can’t believe a single word he says.”
    “So?”
    “So, what’s my obligation here? What am I supposed to do?”
    “You’re supposed to carry out your client’s wishes.”
    “If my client’s lying to me, I don’t know what those wishes are.
    “True. In which case, there’s probably only one way to find out.
    “What’s that?”
    “Ask him.”

11.
    T HE RECEPTIONIST AT P HILIP G REENBERG Investments frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I’m Harold Bainbridge,” I repeated. “I’m here to see Cranston Pritchert.”
    “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Bainbridge?”
    “No, I don’t. But I’m sure he’ll see me.”
    The receptionist, an efficient-looking young woman with curly red hair, scooped up the phone and punched in a number. “Mr. Pritchert? There’s a Harold Bainbridge here to see you.” She listened a moment, then said, “And what is this in regard to, Mr. Bainbridge?”
    “An investment.”
    She relayed that message, and got another earful from Cranston Pritchert. “What kind of an investment, Mr. Bainbridge?”
    “I prefer to keep that confidential. If Mr. Pritchert can give me a moment of his time, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, I suppose I could come back.”
    I figured that would work.
    It didn’t.
    “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, after relaying the message, “but Mr. Pritchert would have to know what this is about before he’d be willing to grant you an appointment. Could you tell me generally what it is in which you’d like to invest?”
    “Singles bars.”
    Pritchert was out in fifteen seconds, white as a sheet. If the sight of me was any relief to him, you wouldn’t have known it. If anything, it only panicked him more.
    “Aha,” he said. “Aha. Mr. …?”
    “Bainbridge.”
    “Yes. Bainbridge. You wanted to see me?”
    “Yes, I did. Do you suppose we could talk about it in your office?”
    “Oh,” Pritchert said. He thought a moment, and added, “Oh.”
    I marched over to him, took his hand, and shook it. I said, “I really appreciate your giving me the time.”
    Now I had hold of him, I figured I’d just push him in the direction of his office. Before I could, two men came down the hall, one short and stocky, one tall and thin. At least, tall by ordinary