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My second e-mail was sent through a remote router that stripped off any electronic connections to me. I identified myself as Tom Boll, an investigator working for parties interested in the disappearance of Johanna Mudd. I knew that Braun had set a meeting with Mudd and that when he didn’t show up she disappeared. My sources (whatever those might have been) had informed me that he, Braun, was investigating the conviction of the cop killer A Free Man. I went on to say that I needed information about his case in order to see if his enemies were also against Ms. Mudd.

That was a long shot, but I thought I might at least have electronic communication with the lawyer-celeb, gathering a few crumbs in the process.

At 4:14 p.m. Aja-Denise walked in. I was sitting at the reception desk considering the tips of my left hand’s fingers. My teenage daughter wore a red dress that was barely acquainted with her upper thighs and white vinyl platform shoes that elevated her to near my height. The green straps of a backpack dug into her bare shoulders.

“What?” she asked me.

“Are you wearing anything under that slip?”

“Daddy!”

I held up a lecturing finger and said, “Just think if you walked in here and all I had on was a T-shirt and a pair of those skin-tight satin trunks that those men were wearing at Sunset Beach. Because, girl, that would be overdressed compared to what you got on right now.”

The thing about me and A.D. is that we know what to say to each other. She shifted a little uncomfortably and placed her arms in such a way as to cover some of her flesh.

“Everybody dresses like this.”

“Answer my question.”

“I guess I wouldn’t want that,” she agreed. “But if I go all the way home I won’t be able to work for you today.”

“What you got in the backpack?”

“A trench coat.”

“Put it on.”

She opened her mouth to protest but I opened my eyes wide and she took off the incongruous drab green backpack instead.

The trench coat was light tan and short hemmed. She put it on, fastening all the buttons and tying the sash around her waist. The coat wasn’t much longer than the red slip and it fit her like a dress suit. But at least there was something left to the imagination.

“You know we’re gonna have that talk someday soon,” I said.

“I know.” She gave me that wry expression inherited from her mother.

I love that child. During my most difficult years it was only her and Gladstone who never let me down.

The buzzer to the door sounded and A.D. went to answer.

It was the in-person reply to the third e-mail I dispatched.

“Hey,” Aja said with real welcome in her voice. She backed away from the entrance, exposing Willa Portman wearing a simple and mostly shapeless black-and-orange dress and a pink sweater, and carrying that same briefcase.

“Hi-i,” she said to all and sundry.

“Miss Portman.”

“Mr. Oliver. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No. Aja and I were just discussing the office dress code. She told me that I cannot wear a wifebeater to work.”

Willa smiled and I gestured for her to enter my office.

“Want me to come take notes?” A.D. asked.

“No,” I said before closing the door.

“I see you got it,” I said to my unlikely client when we were seated.