That’s the name on the card. Randall Shane. Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think why. Soon after giving me the card, Ms. Savalo locks her briefcase and prepares to leave, eager to return the borrowed Honda and, no doubt, to get on with her regular life, whatever that might be. I’ve no idea if she’s married (no ring, but that’s hardly conclusive) or if she has children of her own. She’s given no indication of any desire to share personal information, and I’m not inclined to pry. For all I know, she lives in a file cabinet and pops out when innocent clients are framed for horrible crimes. Which is fine by me, so long as she continues to pop up whenever I need her. Last thing she does before leaving is promise to arrange a car rental for me. It seems my minivan has been impounded, and will not be released for several days, assuming they don’t find any evidence linking it to Fred Corso’s murder. “You don’t want to be driving a vehicle with known plates anyhow, not for a few days,”
