ME: A sex therapist!!

MORTY: Is that like a hooker?

ME: NO!.

MORTY: It sounds like a fancy name for a hooker.

ME: No, no, no. She's like a psychologist, only she specializes in sex stuff.

MORTY: Interesting.

[Long pause. Absolutely a lull.]

ME: I don't want to have this information.

MORTY: Neither do I.

ME: And I don't want my mother to have this information. It's none of her business and David wouldn't want her to know either.

MORTY: So don't tell her.

ME: She explicitly asked me to gather this information for her. I have to return to her with some information or she won't leave me alone. And, honestly, I can't go out with two of her lawyers a month. It's way too much.

MORTY: You're a grown woman, Izzele. Why can't you simply say no to your mother?

ME: I just can't.

MORTY: That doesn't sound like you. You have a mind of your own and follow it whether it makes good sense or not.

ME: I just can't cross her this time.

MORTY: You did something, didn't you?

ME: No. It's not that.

MORTY: What did you do? Tell me.

ME: My battery's dying. I'll call you later.

MORTY: I wasn't born yesterday, Izzele.

ME: Don't I know it.

THE ENGLE PROBLEM.

I put on a black wig in the style of a sharp bob and a tan trench coat and parked two blocks away from Rae's school. I phoned my sister from the car and told her that something had come up and she'd have to find another ride. I suggested David, since I knew his counseling session would be over. I then waited in my car across the street from her school and watched the entrance/exit.

When I caught sight of Logan Engle, I exited my vehicle and followed him on foot. He circled the school and took his post by the parking lot gate. A younger male student approached him and I observed yet another exchange of goods. Now I only had to find out what his product was.

I approached quickly and quietly. I wore sneakers, not boots, which would have worked much better with this outfit but don't contribute to stealth.

"What are you selling?" I asked.

"What are you selling?" he asked, all cocky and young and thinking that the world was at his fingertips, not knowing the frustration and heartache that would eventually beset him. I know I'm being dramatic. But Logan looked to me like the kind of guy who peaks in high school.

I pulled forty dollars from my pocket.

"What will this buy me?"

"Are you a cop?"

"Do I look like a cop?"

"You look like a woman who needs a hairdresser."

"Is my wig crooked?"

"Yes."

"Look, I was in the neighborhood. I've spent the day spying on my cheating ex. I see you in your preppy uniform, swapping goods with a kid, and I think, you're not smart enough to be selling term papers, so I draw a conclusion, because I'm good at drawing conclusions. You're selling weed and I could use some weed right now. I got forty bucks. What will it get me?"

I shoved the bills into Logan's pocket. The kid swept the street with his eyes and handed me a baggy. Bingo. Now that I knew what I was dealing with, so to speak, I got to the bottom of things.

"You know someone named Rae Spellman?" I asked.

"Who are you?" he said, his color fading from fear.

To be honest, I was enjoying myself.

"Here's all you need to know," I said. "I'm not a snitch. It's not my style. But I want to know who Rae Spellman is to you."

"Why are you asking?"

"Enough with the questions. Start spilling."

"She's no one. She's just a thorn in my side."

"She's not your girlfriend?"

"No way. Talk about high maintenance. I already have to wear this stupid shirt all the time."

Logan lifted up his sweater and revealed a FREE SCHMIDT! T-shirt underneath.

"So why are you always driving her places?"

"Because I have to!" Logan said, sounding desperate.

"Why?"

"Because she knows about my side business. She's holding it over my head."

"She's blackmailing you?"

"Yeah."

"Are you stoned when you drive her?"

"Nah. I never touch the stuff. It makes me paranoid."

"One more question: Does she ever take the bus?"

"I don't think so. I get the feeling something bad happened to her one time."

"You know what?"

"Nah."

"Watch your back, Logan," I said, just to keep him off balance.

Then I returned to my car, took my visual post again, and spotted my sister cozying up to a guy alongside a bike rack. They looked chummy and he looked, well, harmless. No discernible hair gel or tattoos. His khakis said he wasn't too cool or too uncool, and he wore a battered green army jacket over a wrinkled button-down shirt. He had a strap around his right leg, identifying him as a cyclist. Rae said something he thought was hilarious and then he casually put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. As I watched them from behind a tree, across the street, David pulled up in his Toyota Prius. The new couple ducked out of view and kissed on the lips. Gross. Harmless boy put on his bike helmet and waved good-bye to my sister. Rae waited a beat so our brother wouldn't connect the two parties and casually walked to his car.

When David and Rae departed, I removed my wig and decided to gloat about my newfound information. Since I couldn't tell the unit (and it was still Wednesday) I dropped by the police station.

"You know nothing, " I said to Henry once I closed his office door.

"What a charming way to begin a conversation," he replied.

"I have some information you might find intriguing."

"How nice of you to drop by."

"Logan Engle is so not Rae's boyfriend."

"It's nice to get some good news for once. Make yourself comfortable."

My trench coat was warm, so I took it off and threw it over the chair.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked.

"You serve bourbon here?"

Henry ignored me and left his office, returning a short while later with two mugs. Mine had stale instant hot chocolate in it; his contained herbal tea.

"So if he's not her boyfriend, who is he?" Henry asked, leading back to the opening of the conversation.

"He's her victim. She's blackmailing him. He plays Driving Miss Daisy and she keeps his secret."

"What's his secret?" Henry asked.

"Sorry," I replied. "I'm no snitch."

"Is it illegal?"

"She has a real boyfriend, you know."

"So why doesn't she make him drive her places?"

"He has a bicycle."

"I like him already," Henry said. "Now tell me Logan's secret."

"No," I replied. "What happened to Rae on the bus?"

Henry leaned back in his chair. He had leverage now and would only squander it on an exchange of information.

"Tell me what she's got on Logan and I'll spill all the dirt I know."

I eyed the inspector carefully. Judging from the expression on his face, the slightly evil eye twinkle, whatever happened to Rae on the bus was worth knowing, but it was not a deep, dark secret. I could get the information elsewhere. I didn't need to bring a cop into Rae's troubles. The last thing she needed in her senior year of high school was to be dragged into a drug bust. I wasn't sure what Henry's legal obligations would be if I told him the truth, so I made an executive decision not to tell him the truth.

"No deal," I replied. "Thanks for the cocoa, Henry. I'll see you around."

I pulled my coat off the chair and made a prompt departure.

REEFER MADNESS.

I couldn't finish any busy work at the office, my family investigations were done (for the day), the city was cold and wet, and I didn't feel like sitting in my car outside Harkey's office, so I decided to drop by the Philosopher's Club and spend some quality time with Ex #12.

"Is-a-bel," Connor said, "wat er ya doin' here in the middle of the afternoon?"

"Slumming," I replied.

"You're such a sweetheart, you are," he said, pouring me a pint of Guinness without asking whether that was the drink I had in mind. "Can I interest you in stocking the bar for me? You can work off some of your tab."

"It would be my pleasure," I replied, thinking that I ought to do something nice for Connor after betting against his team in last Sunday's game and winning handsomely. Once I'd restocked the bar, which I had done on numerous occasions as an official employee, I used the bar as a desk and got back to work. First I checked my e-mail.

Christopher informed me that he'd dropped by the Winslow residence, and while Len was occupying the man of the house with a new landscaper1 meeting, Christopher logged on to Winslow's computer, and forwarded Mason Graves's e-mail headers to me. I, in turn, forwarded them to Robbie, glad for the opportunity to avoid direct communication with the social misfit.

A half hour of peace and silence was broken by Connor's cold announcement.

"Izzy, ya haf a visitor, I think."

I turned to the doorway and saw Henry Stone, blocking the now dim light from outside. I couldn't read his expression until he took a few steps in and the shadow previously cast over his face slid away, revealing the severity of his expression. I hadn't seen Henry this angry in months.

He approached the bar.

Trying to keep things light, I said, "Should I make a run for it?"

"I need to speak to you in private," Henry coldly replied.