I’d promised to tell him anything I found out about Peter Boughman’s murder and anyone who might have seen him in the days before his demise. He gave me three telephone numbers, saying that I’d find him at the end of one line or another. He stepped across the threshold and stopped, made a half turn, and regarded me. “Why haven’t you asked me for money up front, Mr. Rawlins?” “Same reason I wouldn’t steal from you, Mr. Stapleton. I don’t want you to think that I’d take your money without giving something in return.” He considered my answer, nodded, and said, “I’ll be waiting for your call.” He strolled down the walkway, past the sidewalk, and all the way to the curb. He stopped there and the headlights of a dark Lincoln Continental came on four houses down, across the street. The car pulled up to where Stapleton was standing. He opened the door to the backseat and climbed in. The Lincoln didn’t take off immediately. Maybe they were just discussing the next stop on their late-night rounds.
