“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?”

“Biting your tongue.”

He laughed and said, “I’ll meet you there.”

Lefebvre and Matt Arden had caused most of the work on the mall to come to a complete halt. O’Malley wasn’t happy about the huge costs involved, but his employers didn’t blame him, so he didn’t blame me. He admitted to me that he had enjoyed helping Lefebvre with the investigation. Currently, that included lending the use of the backhoe and operator to the proceedings, which were taking place about two hundred yards away from the place where the car had been.

Lefebvre had found some building plans filed on the farm in the late 1940s, plans that showed where various structures had stood. By the time we arrived there, Lefebvre, those who were helping him from the department crime lab, and O’Malley’s crew had worked together to uncover a strange metal contraption. They had set it aside and continued digging. O’Connor identified the object to me as a still.

“So he was making booze as well as shipping it?” I asked.

“It may have been the way he got connected with the bootleggers in the first place,” O’Connor said.

They were working slowly and cautiously now, and we weren’t allowed to get too close. I learned from O’Malley that a few minutes before Lefebvre called us, they came across a hidden room similar to the one described to me by Griffin Baer’s barber.

While we waited, I told O’Connor about the call from Betty Bradford. “So at least she’s alive.”

He was interested in this, but before much more time had passed, he gave in to an urge to lecture me on reporting rather than creating news, especially where Max was concerned. If I didn’t believe, somewhere deep down, that I needed to watch my step, I suppose it would have bothered me more.

When other media arrived, O’Connor broke off a story about Corrigan to swear. I considered this further progress in our working relationship.

Lefebvre reached us before the other reporters did. He said there didn’t seem to be anything in the room other than signs that some booze had been stored there during Prohibition.

“Irene has some theories about the night of the murders, you know,” O’Connor said.

“Tell them to me later today?” Lefebvre asked.

“Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “I have an appointment right now, though.”

“I’ll stay here,” O’Connor said, “and get what I can before deadline. See you in…” He broke off again, this time as we heard brakes squeal. A black Datsun 280Z pulled up, double-parking next to my Ghia, blocking me in.

“Hey!” I said in protest.

A bearded man with long dark hair tied in a ponytail emerged from the car. Although we had never been formally introduced, I recognized him immediately as one of the staff of the Express. He was dressed in blue Adidas, torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and an Army jacket, and within moments was carrying two cameras and a backpack full of film and accessories.

“Stephen Gerard,” O’Connor said to Lefebvre. “Word must have come into the Express, too-Wrigley has sent one of our best photographers.”

“One of our best head cases,” I said. “He makes Wildman look tame.”

“You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear, Kelly.”

I shook my head. “Lydia was trying to interview the author of a vegetarian cookbook. Gerard came in to shoot photos-eating a hot dog.”

O’Connor and Lefebvre started laughing.

“He did it on purpose!” I said.

“I have no doubt of that.”

“Is he some sort of pet of yours?”

“He’s paid his dues,” O’Connor said. “And most of them in Vietnam-he’s a veteran, you know.”

“So is Lefebvre.”

O’Connor looked at me in amazement. It was clear to me that he had no trouble believing Lefebvre was a vet, but was miffed that I knew about it and he didn’t.

“Air Force,” I added, just to rub it in.

Lefebvre smiled, but said nothing. Gerard reached us, and O’Connor introduced him all around. Gerard held on to his cameras as if using them as a protection against having to shake hands with anyone.

“Nice to meet you, but you’re blocking my car,” I said.

“I know. I recognized it. That’s why I parked there.”

“How could you be sure it was my car?”

He shrugged. “Observation, mostly. I’ve seen you drive into the lot at the paper in a red ragtop Karmann Ghia. A similar car is now parked where you are supposed to be covering a story. When I got closer, I saw that it has a white license plate frame with black lettering that says ‘Las Piernas Auto Haus.’” He paused for about half a second before reciting my plate number, then added, “There’s a place near the right rear taillight where you didn’t get all the Turtle Wax off the last time you washed the car.”

I was seriously creeped out by this, but all I could manage to say was, “I don’t use Turtle Wax.”

He shrugged again. “All right. Whatever it was, you didn’t get all of it off.”

O’Connor grinned, and Lefebvre suddenly took an interest in the toe of one of his shoes.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“You didn’t. Look, I’m in a hurry.” I said good-bye to O’Connor and Lefebvre, and walked off. Gerard followed me.

We didn’t talk on the way to the cars. A couple of other photographers called out to him as we passed them, and he waved but didn’t stop to talk to them.

Before he got into his car, he stopped to take some quick photos. I glanced in the direction he had aimed the camera, but didn’t see anything unusual.

“Do you mind?” I said impatiently. “You can take photos of traffic after I leave.”

“The car I wanted to photograph won’t be here then.”

“My Ghia? You are starting to freak me out, Gerard.”

“I freak you out? And the guy who’s been following you doesn’t?”

I felt the color drain from my face. “What guy?”

“I don’t know. Drives a black Beemer. I’ve seen it near the paper, but only when you’re there. And he was just here. I don’t know anyone on staff who can afford a BMW.”

A black BMW. Max? I wondered. “What does the driver look like?”

“I haven’t had a chance to get a look at him. For that matter, I’m not even sure it’s a him and not a her.”

“You know where I missed a spot of car wax,” I said, bending to clean the offending dried paste off the taillight, “but you never saw the driver?”

“You didn’t even see the car, so don’t give me grief about not seeing the driver.”

I had to admit the justice of this. “New black BMW without plates?”

He closed his eyes. “No, there were plates. Don’t know how new it is. Shiny, well-cared-for car.” He opened his eyes again. “I’ll see if I can get a plate from the photos I’ve just taken.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And sorry for snapping at you.”

In a gesture I was starting to anticipate from him, he shrugged that off. He got into his car without saying anything more.

He took my great parking spot when I drove away.

I nearly wrecked the Karmann Ghia twice after that, a result of looking in the rearview mirror too often. No black BMWs. I was feeling a little shaky. I told myself it was the near misses, then called myself a liar. I tried to figure out why anyone would want to follow me around, and couldn’t come up with any clear answers.

I didn’t know if Max had his plates yet. After a moment, I realized that it didn’t matter.

If Max wasn’t the one following me, I was upset.

If Max was sneaking around, shadowing me, I was upset. Maybe not quite as much, but still, it was weird.

I’d have to confront him. Then I thought about how awful it would be if he wasn’t the one following me. How could I even hint at such a thing to him without sounding really paranoid-or as if I thought he was some kind of creepy freak? I started rehearsing how I’d talk to him about it.

Closer to the beach, an afternoon wind was coming up, causing the roof of the convertible to flap noisily. It added to my sense of unease.