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As I drove back to Portland, Steady Freddy White got in touch to let me know he couldn’t make it for lunch the next day, as his wife was insisting they head down to Exeter, New Hampshire, to see her mother. Judging by his tone, his wife might have encountered resistance to the suggestion that they cross the street to see her mother, never mind traverse the state line, but we bear our burdens with fortitude. I was buying gas in Portsmouth at the time, and could probably have dropped in on Steady Freddy’s mother-in-law as a favor, thus saving him a trip. As it happened, he texted again moments later to let me know that, alternatively, he was free in an hour or so, if I still wanted to talk.

Picking a venue was the only issue. While it wasn’t uncommon for police and private investigators to discuss cases, even those where the PI might be working for the defense, the Colleen Clark affair was unusually high-profile. Were Steady Freddy and I to be seen together, it could get back to Erin Becker or her boss. That ruled out places like the Great Lost Bear or Ruski’s, bars where cops liked to congregate. In the end, I settled for LFK on State Street, which had the additional benefit of being dimly lit.

Steady Freddy was already waiting for me when I got there, sticking out like a priest at an orgy. No one had ever looked more like a detective than Steady Freddy White. Perhaps there was a section at Nordstrom Rack devoted entirely to the budget-conscious plainclothes policeman: sensible shoes, comfortable pants, jackets that already resembled pre-owned before the label came off, and shirts and ties that came as a set with a free handkerchief. If so, Steady Freddy haunted it like a ghost. He was seated at a table near the back of the bar, with a lager and a menu before him, casting a skeptical eye over the clientele while wincing at the music.

“What kind of joint is this?” he asked.

“A young person’s one. You remember young people, even if you were never one yourself.”

Steady Freddy tapped the menu accusingly.

“They serve a burger with avocado, and I don’t even know what the fuck dill tahini might be. This,” he concluded solemnly, “is why we need to bring back conscription.”

He ordered a signature burger, having been assured by the server that it wouldn’t even share prep space with an avocado, never mind tahini. Steady Freddy gave the server a parting glance that suggested he’d better make sure of it. Otherwise, should he ever have the misfortune to be arrested, he would rue the day he had disappointed a hungry Steady Freddy White. The server then brought me an alcohol-free beer that wasn’t an O’doul’s, which confirmed Steady Freddy in the opinion that LFK represented the world going to hell in a handbasket, and we circled each other with small talk before alighting at last on our reason for being there.

“It’s a rotten business,” said Steady Freddy. “For the kid, the husband, even her. But you’re going to tell me she didn’t do it, right?”

It was the second time in a matter of hours that I’d been asked a version of the old question. I gave a version of the old answer, but one tailored to the questioner.

“I’m uneasy about some aspects,” I offered, “enough to make me think she’s innocent.”

“Are you planning on sharing your doubts, or do I have to guess?”

Before I could reply, the burgers arrived. Steady Freddy inspected his as though the chef might personally have shat it onto the plate, but his first taste caused him to brighten considerably, loaded as it was with pimento cheese.

“You know, my wife wouldn’t let me eat a hamburger like this,” he said.

He was already leaving enough evidence on his tie in the form of juices and cheese to convict him without hope of appeal when he got home.

“Maybe you should have married me.”

“You didn’t ask,” said Steady Freddy, “which saved me the trouble of having to shoot you.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“So,” he said, “tell me about the innocence mission.”