Lawrence and I came around the end of the garage at the same time, and our eyes landed on a man-a young man, probably in his late teens, early twenties-about five-ten, slim, short-cropped dirty-blond hair, black lace-up boots, black jeans, long black jacket, dark sunglasses.

He should have felt embarrassed, trapped and cornered as he was, but he stood there confidently, almost defiantly.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I recognized the voice. “You must be Trevor,” I said.

A slight nod of the head. “You must be Mr. Walker,” he said. He stepped forward, and as he did so, I noticed he tried to shove something between some tall weeds. He extended a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

I couldn’t think of anything to do but shake, so I did.

“What’s that you stepped over?” I asked.

“Hmm?” said Trevor.

“Down there,” I pointed, just behind his feet. Trevor moved forward a bit, and we could all now see a six-pack of beer. Budweiser, in cans.

“Someone’s stashed some beer back here,” Trevor said.

“But not you.”

“No, not me.”

“Then if you’re not leaving beer behind my garage, what are you doing, Trevor?” I asked.

He said, as if the answer were obvious and my question bordering on stupid, “Trying to find my dog.”

“Really. You thought he might be trapped in here, between the garage and the fence?”

He reached up, slowly took of his sunglasses, and looked at me with eyes like cold blue steel. “Yes.”

“I don’t see any dog, Trevor.”

“That’s because I haven’t found him yet.”

Lawrence finally spoke. “Where do you live, Trevor?” He wasn’t just making conversation. This was his cop voice.

Trevor slowly and warily turned his attention on Lawrence. “Around. I’ve got a room over on Ainslie, a block over. My dog wanders over here a lot when he gets loose. But I have this way of tracking him.”

Lawrence again: “How might that be, Trevor?”

He smiled. “Satellite.”

Now it was my turn. “You keep track of your dog by satellite,” I said. Trevor’s head lazily turned my way. I had a feeling we were boring him.

“Yeah, satellite. It’s a software program, like that thing they have in some of the new cars, you know, where you press the button and you get connected to these people who always know where you are. Your air bag goes off, they know instantly, send an ambulance to your exact location. Not that I would ever have a car like that. You really want General Motors to know where you are every second you’re out and about? You think they’d be above selling that kind of information? Who do you think gets loads of government contracts to build military technology? Companies like General Motors, that’s who. One hand washes the other, right?”

The theme from The Twilight Zone started playing in my head.

“So Trevor, you have this software program in your pocket or what?”

He beckoned us with his finger, leading us around the front of the house and stepped up onto my porch. He grabbed the backpack I noticed in our wicker chair.

He brought it back over by the cars, but when he went to set it, with its various straps and buckles everywhere, on the hood of Lawrence’s Jag, Lawrence said, “Just put it on the drive, pal.”

Trevor complied. There was something about Lawrence’s voice that made you do what he asked, even if you were a kid who thought he was tough, like Trevor.

Trevor glanced up at Lawrence as he opened the flap on the backpack. “Who are you, may I ask?”

“My name is Mr. Jones,” he said.

Trevor glanced at me. “Is he a friend of yours?” I stared, thinking this kid had a lot of attitude, standing here with two adults who’d just caught him trespassing. “What do you do, Mr. Jones? I’m betting you’re a cop.”

“You know a lot of cops, do you, Trevor?”

“No, but I know an authority figure when I see one. It’s in the way you carry yourself, your voice, like when you tell somebody to do something, you expect them to do it.”

“I was,” Lawrence said. “Now I’m what you might call an independent.”

“You mean, like a security guard?”

Oh boy. I hoped, when Lawrence decided to kill him, he’d be quick.

Amazingly, Lawrence kept his cool. “No,” he said icily. “I’m a private detective.”

Trevor’s eyes were wide. “Ahhh. Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met an actual private detective before. Do you have, like, a license or something? I’d love to see it.”

“How’d you like to see your face planted on the sidewalk?”

That didn’t seem to faze Trevor. But rather than try to up the attitude, he adopted a reasonable tone. “I’d merely like to know whether you have some authority to interrogate me like this. Mr. Walker here, this is his property, and he’s entitled to ask what I’m doing here, and I can understand why he might be troubled, but I’m afraid I don’t understand your role here.”

He was good, I had to give him that.

Lawrence eyed Trevor like he was a cobra waiting to strike. Slowly, Lawrence reached into his jacket and extracted a small white business card. “Here,” he said, handing it carefully to Lawrence. “You can shove this up your ass.”

Trevor glanced at the card, smiled, and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” Lawrence said coolly. “Someday, when you want someone to tail your wife because she’s having an affair, you can give me a call.”

“Oh,” Trevor said, smiling, “I don’t think that will be necessary. There are so many other ways to find out what people are up to, folks like you will be out of business in a few years.”

“Why don’t you just show us what’s in the bag,” I said.

Trevor slipped a laptop from inside it, opened it up, where the screen was already up and running.

“Wireless Internet connection,” he said, “so I can do this sort of thing from anyplace.”

“Amazing,” I said. “Do what?”

“You see this? This is a map of this quadrant of the city.”

Lawrence and I looked. He was right. There was Crandall and a five-block radius around it. And what looked to be a moving dot that was pulsing.

I pointed to it. “What’s that?”

“That’s Morpheus.”

“Morpheus?”

“My dog. His name’s Morpheus. It looks like he’s moving back this way.” The dot appeared to be traveling from one side of the street to the other. “He’s probably on the trail of a squirrel. Or looking for a place to take a whiz.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “How can you do this?”

Trevor gave me a no-big-deal shrug. “There’s a tiny transmitter on his collar, and that sends the message to the satellite, and it shows up on here.” Looking at Lawrence, he said, “I’m sure you must have equipment like this for the kind of work you do.” Saying it like he knew Lawrence didn’t. Lawrence said nothing.

I still wasn’t buying it, until Trevor, looking up the street, jumped up and shouted, “Morpheus! Here, boy!”

And a black knee-high, scruffy-looking thing that was one part bulldog and at least five parts of something else came hurtling down the sidewalk, up our short drive, and threw itself at Trevor and into his arms.

“Hey, Morpheus, I was watching you all the time.” He wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck and nuzzled his face into the mutt’s, unconcerned about the slobber that was dripping onto his coat. He pointed to a quarter-size disc-like item clipped to the dog’s collar.

“That’s it there,” he said.

“How do you get this kind of stuff?” I asked.

Trevor stood up. “My dad. He’s in software. He’s rich. He puts stuff in the mail for me to play with.”

“You don’t live with your parents anymore?” I asked.

Trevor smiled. “My parents and I reached the conclusion that I was better off on my own.”

“Trevor, why don’t you cut the shit,” Lawrence said. “You’re not here looking for your dog.”

He cocked his head slightly to one side. “That’s quite true. I was hoping to run into Angie. I thought she might be interested in all this, and that she might like my dog, too.”