After slowly crossing Marisa’s living room he stopped in front of a window and peeked through Venetian blinds at the street, four stories below. “We let Raymond stick it to us,” he said. “That hurts a lot more than my cracked ribs, believe me. He led us on. And we ended up driving a car into an apartment-house lobby, through twelve thousand dollars’ worth of plate glass and right into a fake waterfall and a pool of goldfish. Lawyers for the building and a couple of tenants are hitting the department with suits, writs, you name it. Good old Raymond. The man put one hell of a move on us. Just turns the corner, waits, then switches on his brights.” Bess turned from the window to look at Marisa. “He’s laughing at me. Somewhere Raymond’s laughing at me.” She said, “You did your best. What more could you possibly do?” “In my line of work, coming in second doesn’t pay. Everybody—the department, the public—they all want results.” Bess looked through the Venetian blinds again.
