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work.
    Ann Horowitz had said she saw pain in my eyes and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I said I didn’t and she asked, “How long can a person enjoy their pain?”
    “Till they die, if they’re lucky.”
    She gave me her card and said that she wanted to talk to me even if I didn’t want to talk to her. She planned to do more research on my honorable profession and fill me with history if not pride. She also said that she would charge me only ten dollars for each session. After our first session, I gave her twenty dollars and that became the fixed rate for our meetings. There had been a few times when I was behind on my payments, but I always caught up. I learned from a lawyer whose daughter was seeing Ann Horowitz that he was paying her an even one hundred per session, most of which was covered by his expensive health-care plan.
    She handed me a copy of an article from Smithsonian magazine about John Marshall, the first chief justice of the Supreme Court.
    “Jefferson hated him,” she said. “America was formed as much or more by Marshall than Washington or Jefferson. Great man. Read it. Tell me what you think. No hurry.”
    There was a couple sitting in the outer office when
I left holding my article. They looked embarrassed and familiar. The woman looked down, pretending to read a recent office copy of People . The man smiled and adjusted his glasses.
    Ann told them to go into her office. Before she followed them, she whispered to me, “Someday you will be able to say her name and we can really begin.”
    “I thought we began months ago,” I said.
    “No, I’ve just been softening you up.”
    She followed the couple through the office door and closed it behind her.
    The wife’s voice came through to the reception room. I couldn’t make out the words, didn’t want to, but there was immediate pain, immediate anger.
    I went in search of someone who might know how to find Adele Tree. I had someone in mind. My bicycle was locked to a No Parking sign. I had made up my mind. I had to rent a car. Carl Sebastian had to pay for it.
     
    The EZ Economy Car Rental Agency was six doors north of Dave’s Dairy Queen on 301. EZ was located in a former gas station. There were cars parked in front, cars behind the lot. The bigger rental agencies were out at the airport. EZ claimed that they offered lower rates by being in a low-rent neighborhood and catering to those who wanted anything from a banged-up semi-wreck with 80,000 miles on it to a new Jaguar with a few thousand miles on it.
    I had rented from EZ before when I had a job that required it. I preferred the bicycle.
    The two men in rumpled suits inside the office of EZ were leaning back against the desk, arms folded, waiting for the phone to ring or me to walk in.
    “The detective,” said the younger one with a smile that seemed sincere. He was no more than thirty and
quickly growing as round as his older partner.
    “Process server,” I corrected.
    We had gone through this routine the last four or five times I had rented a car. It seemed to amuse both of the men.
    “What can we do ya for?” said the older man.
    They had introduced themselves when I first met them. One was Alan. The other was Fred. I couldn’t remember which was which.
    “Compact.”
    “We’ve got a Corolla,” said the young one.
    “A Geo Prizm,” said the older one.
    “Same difference,” said the younger.
    The older man chuckled.
    “How long?” asked the young one.
    “What’s the weekly rate now?” I asked.
    “For you?” asked the older man. “A hundred and eight-five plus insurance. The usual. You get it gas full. You return it gas full.”
    “What have you got for a hundred and forty including insurance?”
    “An Amish three-wheel bicycle,” said the young one.
    They both laughed. The older one turned red and started to choke. The younger one patted him on the back till he returned to semi-normal.
    “Oh God,” said the older one, wiping away tears.
    “Geo Metro,”