Flipping through the envelopes, I found a new case from Atlantic Casualty and a couple of circulars from the computer search companies—but no money. I ripped the circulars in half and dropped them in the trash. If they were the future for the detective business, Marg was right: It was time to think of a retirement plan. A short drive to Kentwood, the first suburb south of Grand Rapids, took me back to my office among the lawyers, dentists, and insurance adjusters that infest the row of three-story brick office buildings west of Breton Avenue on Forty-fourth Street. My first-floor space is down a flight of stairs and sort of half in the basement, where we occupy a location with a big window on the central court meant for a coffee shop or hair salon, both of which I threaten to open monthly. Marg sat at her desk doing a diet soda and bag lunch when I strolled in the door. She pushed a couple of message slips at me as I passed her desk. One was from Virginia Hampton, the insurance adjuster I had spoken with this morning.
