“Lincoln Perry,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir. My partner, Joe Pritchard.”

He nodded without speaking and shook Joe’s hand, then pivoted smoothly on his heel and returned to his desk. He settled into the big executive’s chair with a paternal sigh, and I had the feeling we were about to be chastised for daring to barge into his office and waste his precious time. Time, as they say, is money, and Jeremiah Hubbard loved his money.

“Well,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk, “what’s on your minds?”

Joe looked at me, and I nodded for him to go ahead with it. “We’d like to speak with you about Wayne Weston,” he said.

Hubbard ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips and frowned. “Would this be the same Weston who has dominated local news coverage recently?”

“The very one,” Joe said.

Hubbard nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair and stared at us. After about ten seconds of silence he raised his eyebrows and rolled his hand slightly, telling Joe to continue.

“Did you know Mr. Weston?” Joe asked.

“Why is that a matter of your concern?”

“We have reason to believe he was working for you, Mr. Hubbard,” Joe said. “We were hoping you could tell us a little about that.”

“Why do you think he was working for me?”

“Because he recently cashed five checks from companies affiliated with you, and executives at these companies claim to have no association with the man.”

“Many companies are affiliated with me, Mr. Pritchard.”

“I understand that, sir. What I’m asking you is whether you ever employed Wayne Weston,” Joe said bluntly.

Hubbard laid his hands on the desk, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward. “If I had employed an individual like Mr. Weston, it would seem to be for a confidential and possibly sensitive matter, wouldn’t it?”

“We have no intention of prying into your personal affairs. However, we have been asked to investigate the possibility that Mr. Weston was murdered, and to do that effectively we must look into his recent cases. Any information pertaining to you will be kept confidential,” Joe told him. “We just need to know what he was working on.”

“Who employed you for this?”

“Weston’s father.”

Hubbard’s face changed slightly at that. It was an almost imperceptible relaxation-a slight lessening of his scowl, an easing of the creases in his face. The news seemed to reassure him, though. I wondered who he thought we might be working for, and why he preferred to hear it was Wayne Weston’s father.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m afraid I simply can’t be of any help to you.”

Joe nodded. “We respect that decision, Mr. Hubbard. However, I do want to be sure you’re aware that we’re going to have to pursue this angle, regardless of your cooperation.”

The scowl that had lessened when Joe told him we were working for John Weston returned now.

“How much will you make from this case?” he asked. “How much money will you earn for harassing me and my associates?”

Joe frowned. “We have no intention of harassing anyone, sir. But we’ve been hired to look into Wayne Weston’s recent dealings, and if it appears those dealings involved you, then we’ll have to look into them.”

“How much money?” Hubbard repeated.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “That depends how long we’re on the case. Why does it matter?”

“Will it be more than twenty thousand?”

Joe glanced at me and smiled slightly. “No, it won’t be more than that.”

“I’ll give you twenty thousand, then,” Hubbard said. “Twenty thousand dollars just to stay the hell away from me and my business associates.”

I stared at him. We’d been in the office for roughly two minutes, asked only a few questions, and he was willing to pay us twenty thousand dollars to leave him alone?

“With all due respect,” Joe said, “I don’t understand why you’re making that offer, sir.”

Hubbard waved his hand at Joe, dismissing the question. “I’m a very busy man with many more important considerations than dealing with you and your questions,” he said. “I have enough sources of stress as it is. It’s worth it to me to keep you away and out of my affairs. Twenty thousand to me is the same as ten dollars to you.” He paused and looked at us contemptuously. “Well, maybe ten cents.”

I laughed softly, and Joe shook his head. “No one’s tried to buy us off a case before,” he said, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn that down. We already have a client, and we promised to do the best job we can for him. To accept your offer would be to fail him, and I have no intention of doing that.”

Hubbard’s scowl deepened, but he made a show of shrugging, trying to appear as indifferent as possible, like he’d simply offered us coffee and we’d turned him down because we didn’t want the caffeine.

Joe and I looked at each other, then back at Hubbard. “Mr. Hubbard,” I said, “we’re in the business of finding things out. If Weston worked for you, we’re going to find that out. We’re going to find out what he did, when he did it, and why he did it. You can save everyone the hassle and tell us now, or you can send us on our way. We really don’t care. But don’t think for even one minute that stonewalling us is going to stop anything. It’s just going to delay it.”

It was the first time I had spoken since we shook hands, and Hubbard turned to me with distaste and aggression. It was the type of look I’d seen exchanged between men in bars in the past, and it had generally been followed quickly by the snap of a pool cue or the jolt of a punch. It was the look of a brawler, and coming here, in Hubbard’s elegant office, from a man who displayed such refined manners, it seemed starkly out of place.

“You people disgust me,” he said, and his voice was lower now, gravelly and grinding, like a pencil sharpener too full of shavings. “You spend your lives in the dirt. You build a career out of it, searching out secrets, peeping through windows, rooting through personal and private affairs. You have no honor, because your career, the very means of your existence, demands that you forfeit your honor so you might tarnish another man’s. And that’s fine with you. You don’t make much money, but that’s fine with you, too, because you get such satisfaction from the work, such satisfaction from wreaking havoc in the lives of others, for knowing the best manner in which to pry, provoke, pester, and harass. You,” Hubbard said, his voice shaking with fury, “make me sick.”

I gave a low whistle, looked at Joe, and shook my head. “I knew we were low-class scum, but I didn’t realize we were that bad.”

“Get out of my office,” Hubbard said.

“You ever hear of a guy named Dainius Belov?” I asked.

His head canted sharply, and then he took a breath and smoothed his tie, frowning as if he were surprised and disappointed by his reaction, like maybe my question had tugged on a part of his brain he’d been determined to leave unresponsive during this conversation.

“If you have any further questions, I will refer you to my attorney, Mr. Richard Douglass,” he said in a monotone.

“Dicky D.,” I said. “How’s the old boy doing these days?”

“Leave,” Hubbard said emphatically.

“Dicky D.?” Joe asked me.

“I was trying not to look too intimidated,” I said in a theatrical whisper. “Did it work?”

“No.”

We got to our feet, and Joe turned back to him. “I’m going to leave you our number,” he said. “Just in case you change your mind.”

“That won’t happen,” Hubbard said.

“Nevertheless,” Joe said, “I’d feel better knowing that you have it. Do you have a piece of paper I can write it on?”

“I have our business card with me,” I offered.

Joe shook his head and looked annoyed. “I want to leave Mr. Hubbard my home phone number. He’s important.”

“I asked you to leave,” Hubbard said. “Must I call security?”