A couple of times his driving suffered but who was going to give him a ticket? By the time he dropped me off he was sullen. Happy to distance myself from the case, I drove home. A shiny white Range Rover was parked behind Robin’s truck, tricked out with big wheels and chrome spinners, the windows tinted way past illegal. Efren Casagrande got out of the driver’s side and watched me approach. I said, “Hey, what’s up?” “You’re okay with me here?” “Unless you’ve switched gigs and are working for the IRS.” “Seriously, Doc. It’s cool?” “You need to talk, it’s cool.” He grinned. “You always were the man.” As we walked to my office, I offered him coffee. He said, “I’m good,” and settled on my battered leather couch, one knee pumping. Twitches traced his jawline, fleas jumping beneath the skin. I settled behind the desk. “Here’s where it’s at, Doc,” he said. Waiting for a moment before continuing. “You know what happened but you don’t really know what happened.”
