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“Can you put any weight on it?” Mrs. Odlum asked.

“What? Oh. Sort of.”

“Is he all right?” Mrs. Daly asked. “Was it another homeless person? Should we phone the police?”

“He’s sprained his ankle. We’ve already called the police,” Mrs. Odlum informed her.

Sure enough, the wail of sirens floated in the distance.

“Never a cop when you need them,” Mrs. Daly said, which seemed a little unfair. “How’s your ankle, sweetie?”

“It’s actually my knee.” Zach did not want to be mistaken for the heroine in a romantic suspense novel.

“This is becoming an epidemic!” Mr. Daly pushed the baseball bat into Zach’s hands. “Lucky your head’s still in one piece, son.”

The Odlums and Dalys were still arguing whether car-theft rates were rising or falling in Salinas when the police arrived.

Chapter Eighteen

It was well after ten when Zach poured the last of the Chivas Regal he’d once kept on hand for Pop, and hobbled into the living room. He settled on the sofa, propping his taped knee on a stack of cushions and let out anoofas Mr. Bigglesworth came in for a landing.

“Ohh-kay! Nobody needs their appendix anyway.”

Mr. B. seemed to consider the validity of this, delicately inspecting Zach’s face with whiskery, moon-eyed intent.

Zach smiled beneath the cat’s ministrations. “The main thing isyou’reokay.”

Mr. B. concurred—hismeowheld an aggrieved note—and then they both jumped, Zach narrowly missing spilling his whiskey, as the doorbell rang.

“Nowwhat?” he muttered, struggling to get off the sofa. It was tempting to yell ‘Go away!’ But if this wasn’t yet another neighbor checking in to get the scoop, it would surely be the police back to follow-up on the report he’d just made. Like Lt. Columbo with his ‘Just one more thing!’

He set his glass on the end table, deposited Mr. B. on the stack of cushions, and limped to the front door as the doorbellding-dongedagain.

He stared out the peephole. Flint’s compact frame filled the fish-eye viewfinder.

Zach’s heart skipped a beat. It was disconcerting that his instinctive response was as much pleasure as wariness. Flint, never the model of patience, stopped pressing the doorbell and instead thumped on the door. His slightly distorted expression seemed even grimmer than usual.

Zach unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. “Jeez. You don’t have to break the door down.”

“Seriously?” Despite his irate tone, Flint’s shoulders—his entire body—seemed to relax at the sight of Zach. “I have to hear from Brookethat my-my accountant was attacked in his own home!”

“I’m not your accountant!” Zach shot back. “Besides, it was my garage, not my house.”

Flint cocked his head. There was the faintest suggestion of a smile on his face. “Are you going to let me in? Or are we going to shou-discuss this on the doorstep.”

“I don’t see why we have to discuss it all.” As much as Zach wanted to hold onto his irritation, there was something about the glint in Flint’s eyes, that little twist of smile, that made it impossible to turn him away. He opened the door, grousing, “Why the hell would Brooke callyouof all people?”

“How’s your knee? And what do you mean,me of all people? Who else would she call?”

“Why would she call anyone? I told her only this afternoon we couldn’t go running to…to other people every time we have a problem at the office.”

“I’m notother people. I have a vested interest here.”

“In your dreams.” Zach, trying to favor his knee without appearing to favor his knee, started for the living room. “We can talk in here.”

He was startled and more than a little self-conscious when Flint caught his elbow, offering unasked-for support.

“That’s okay. I’m fine.”