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to sell. Harry bought a couple, but there was one that was too beat up to put on the shelves. I bought it from her.”
    “How do you know it was Maxine Harris?”
    “I was reading the book just the other night. There’s a sticker on the inside front cover with her name written on it.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “It’s a collection of Rimbaud’s work. I don’t know how helpful that is, but at least you know she had good taste in poetry.”
    “Rambo’s a poet?”
    I remembered all over again how far apart Robert and I are in our tastes. His idea of great literature is
Soldier of Fortune
magazine.
    “It looks like she used the book a lot. There’s one section that she highlighted in yellow. I’ll show it to you the next time you’re out at the house.”
    “Is that an invitation?”
    I paused for a moment, considering my options. I knew if I said no, I’d be contradicting my willingness to show him the book. And if I said yes, it might sound like I was offering more than I really was.
    “Take it any way you want,” I said.

John

    I presented my papers to the desk sergeant at the precinct house, a ruddy-faced cop waiting for his heart attack to happen. He glanced at me and made a call.
    Sinclair was there in less than two minutes, a reasonable time for a city employee to keep a courier from the British embassy waiting.
    “Alan Carver,” I announced, extending my hand.
    “I was expecting John Wolf,” Sinclair said, shaking my hand.
    “The undersecretary is in Washington,” I told him. “He asked me to deliver this package to you, and to be prepared to answer any questions you might have. I’m sure you can appreciate the delicate nature of the situation.”
    “Of course,” Sinclair said, as he accepted the small parcel bearing the seal of the United Kingdom.
    The detective escorted me to a conference room on the same floor. It was a large room, sparsely furnished with a single, chipped Formica table and three vinyl chairs. He sat. I remained standing. He read.
    “I think you’ll find the information complete. The weapon in question is there—all the necessary papers. The undersecretary does acknowledge his indiscretion, and apologizes. He asked me to assure you that his moving about your city without the proper escort will not happen again.”
    Sinclair was nodding. He examined the .32 caliber revolver, the license, and the gun’s registration certificate. “This all appears to be in order,” he said. “Mr. Wolf’s letter contains most of the information I need, but—”
    “He has briefed me thoroughly, Detective,” I said, and waited.
    Sinclair scanned the letter again. “His purpose for being in that neighborhood—”
    “The undersecretary is an antiquarian book collector. As you can see, the book he purchased that day is included in the package.”
    Sinclair flipped through the pages of
The Swiss Family Robinson.
He was thinking. In the reality I had shaped for him, he would know that this call was a courtesy, that John Wolf was insulated by diplomatic immunity. He also knew that it was a dead kid’s birthday, and he had a grave to visit. He couldn’t waste the whole day sparring with an absent undersecretary.
    “Were you planning to take this material back with you?” he asked.
    “On the contrary,” I said. “We wish to be of assistance, just not involved. When you have finished with it, please leave a message at the embassy for me. I’ll return and pick it up.”
    I handed him Alan Carver’s card. He stared at it.
    “The night of the shooting,” he began.
    I nodded at the letter.
    “He was at a reception with the mayor?” Sinclair asked.
    “Easily and, I hope, discreetly verified,” I said.
    “Sure.”
    I glanced at my Rolex. “If there’s nothing more,” I said.
    “I’ll check all this out,” he said, standing. “I’ll probably have some questions later.”
    The man was seething.
    I’ve always been a collector of other people’s business cards. With the