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Weston on a murder charge. The trial’s coming up in a couple of weeks.”
    “So?”
    “Weston’s a known low-level dealer with priors. On the day of the murder, he was seen arguing with another dealer, Donnel
     Lawton, who’d been encroaching on Weston’s turf. Lawton was shot to death that night at First and Kennedy with a Beretta ninety-two.
     An anonymous informant made Weston as the triggerman. And when the police searched his place they found a Beretta nine. The
     markings from the slug that killed Lawton matched the gun.”
    “An anonymous informant?”
    “A woman. It was enough to get a warrant.”
    Stefanos tapped ash off his smoke. “Sounds open-and-shut to me.”
    “Weston’s got an alibi. He was with his girlfriend that night. She’s not cooperating, but I believe him. He doesn’t look like
     a killer. It’s his eyes — and after a while, you just know.”
    “Does it make a difference to you if he’s guilty or innocent?”
    “No. I defend them all the same way, Nick. I thought it might make a difference to you.”
    Stefanos hit his smoke. “What else makes you think Weston’s telling the truth? Besides, you know, his eyes.”
    “Around the time of the murder, a kid who works in one of those neighborhood Chinese grease pits, place called Hunan Delite,
     says he was closing up his parents’ shop, heard shots and tires screeching on the road, then saw an old vehicle speeding past
     on Kennedy.”
    “What kind of an old vehicle?”
    Elaine peered inside the folder. “A red Tempo, I think. No, here it is… a red Ford Torino.”
    “What’s Weston drive?”
    “A Legend.”
    “Color?”
    “Red.”
    “Even if you find the driver of the Torino, and even if he has something to do with the crime, the prosecutors will bring
     up the sameness of color in court.”
    “You’re talking about two cars with over twenty years’ difference in terms of style.”
    “Maybe.” Stefanos looked around the cafeteria. “But I’m not interested.”
    “You’re interested. I can see it —”
    “In my eyes?”
    “Thought you might want to pick this one up, see what you can do with it.”
    “I told you the first time you hired me —”
    “I know. You no longer get involved in, how did you put it, ‘murder gigs or other kinds of violent shit.’”
    “I said that?”
    “Something like it.”
    Stefanos dragged on the filter of his Camel. “Get that big Indian you use. Nobody fucks with that guy.”
    “He’s busy on another case.”
    “What about Joey A.?”
    “Joe A.’s tied up, too.” Elaine pushed the folder across the table until it touched Stefanos’s hand. “Look, I need your help,
     Nick. I’ve got another one of these files in my office. Take this one with you, okay?”
    “I don’t think so.” Stefanos moved his hand and dropped his cigarette into the half inch of coffee left in the cup.
    “Right. Let’s put that aside for now, then, and shift gears.”
    “What, you’ve got something else?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I mentioned that I was working with you to my husband last night. Marcus said he thought you might know his friend Dimitri
     Karras. You remember Dimitri, don’t you?”
    “Sure. I haven’t seen him for over ten years. But I was just thinking about him on the way over here. The
Post
ran their quarterly Pizza Parlor Murders piece in this morning’s paper.”
    “Dimitri’s been in a real bad way.”
    Stefanos nodded, drew a fresh cigarette from the pack, tamped it on the table. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers.
    “There can’t be anything worse than to lose a child, Nick.”
    “Wasn’t he with your husband in those record stores?”
    “Yes. Marcus cashed out ten years ago, went back to school and got his M.B.A. In the meantime, Dimitri met his future wife,
     Lisa, in rehab. Dimitri and Lisa got married and had a child straight away. Marcus and a friend named Clarence Tate created
     a retail consulting business designed to help