CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEI drove back to Laurel, parked at my apartment, and walked two blocks down the red brick sidewalks of Main Street to my office in the town’s historic business district. As I turned onto the front walk of the old Victorian where I had my office, the historic aura was briefly punctured by the booming bass and X-rated language of gangsta’ rap blasting from the open window of a passing car.
I stopped at Sheila’s desk to pick up my mail, which she’d segregated to a far corner.
Sheila was doing her usual bony fingerdance on the keyboard, clacking out a document. Her glance flicked my way as I came in.
“Hey,” she said, in a voice like a diesel engine with sand in it. Holding up a skinny forefinger, she rooted around in her desk drawer with the other hand and drew out a busine
