He doesn’t even flinch when I lay into the horn and cut over to the lane for Grand Central. This much closer to the city, the parkway is jammed with honking, flatulent vehicles. We find ourselves trapped behind a smoke-belching freight truck, visibility pretty much zero. I’m worried about missing the exit onto Queens Boulevard, but Shane spots it before I do.

Twenty minutes later we’re in a day-rate parking garage a block from our destination. Haven’t been to this part of Queens in years, but it looks like business is booming, with folks hurrying along sidewalks that are as crowded, if not quite so wide, as Fifth Avenue.

After shutting off the rental car, I turn to Shane and say, “Ready?”

Shane clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ve been thinking maybe you should stay in the car, let me handle the lawyer.”

“No way,” I say, opening the door. “If this guy won’t tell us what we want to know, I’m going to get all medieval on him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tommy likes that expression. Now I know why.”

Shane grins. “It would probably be better if you don’t actually threaten his life.”

Somewhere deep in the garage, wheels are screeching. The sound is like a jagged fingernail inside my brain.

“We’ll see,” I tell him. “I’m not leaving his office without Teresa Alonzo’s number and address.”

The woman who claims to be Tommy’s birth mother. Oh yes, I do remember her name.

20 lawyers, guns and money

Enrico Vargas’s office is located in a seedy brick building that houses, among other enterprises, a video-rental outlet calling itself Entertainment Express, hiding behind a blocked-out, street-level window. Porno for sure. Shane shrugs, as if to say he expected no less: low-rent lawyer in low-rent location. Inside the foyer we stop to check out the listings for office suites, and find Vargas advertising himself as “Attorney to the People—Free Consultation,” which makes me expect to find a waiting room full of scamming whiplash clients.

The dingy hallway actually lifts my spirits. I’m thinking a cut-rate shyster hasn’t got the resources of, say, a midtown law firm. Which from my point of view is a good thing.

“What if he’s not in?” I ask, needing to fret about something. “What if he’s out staging a fender bender?”

“He’s in,” Shane assures me as we mount the stairs to the second floor. “I took the liberty of making an appointment.”

“And he agreed to see us?”

“He agreed to see a man who thinks he has a case against a local McDonald’s. Second-degree burns from hot fat on the French fries.”

“You lied to him?”

“I gave him a reason to be here,” Shane says with a grim smile.

Strange how my perceptions have changed. A few days ago the idea of a man lying for me would have been repugnant. Now it pleases me.

As it happens, Attorney Vargas does not occupy one of the euphemistically listed office suites. He simply has access to a so-called conference room, in reality a bare, beige-walled cubicle barely large enough to contain a battle-scared table and several heavy chairs. No waiting room, no gum-snapping receptionist and no shifty-eyed clients faking injuries from accidents that never happened. No windows, even. Just a briefcase, a tablet of yellow-lined paper, a cell phone and Enrico Vargas himself, slitting open his mail with a chromed letter opener.

Vargas, I must admit, is more impressive than I anticipated, given the modest surroundings. He’s a handsome, heavyset gentleman in his midthirties with an unruly mop of thick, dark hair, cheerful brown eyes that beam with intelligence and a very engaging smile that shows off his white and perfect teeth. His dark blue suit isn’t quite of Armani quality, but he wears it well, and it’s a far cry from the off-the-rack sacks favored by ambulance chasers, at least those I’ve seen depicted on television cop shows.

“Welcome, I think,” says Vargas, eyeing us with a kind of resignation, as if he’s used to deceitful clients, and reluctantly prepared for every eventuality. “I’m looking for a bandage, Mr. Shane. Don’t see a bandage. Burns require a bandage.”

“I’m a quick healer. May we sit?”

“Sure, sit.” He lays the letter opener carefully on the table, nudging it away with his plump pinkie finger, as if afraid it might bite like an ungrateful client. “Is this Mrs. Shane?” he asks, directing his high-beam smile at me. “Are you a quick healer, too?”

“My name is Katherine Bickford. Sound familiar?”

Takes a moment, but he recognizes my name.

“Aw shit,” he says, affecting to be terribly disappointed in us. “Either of you carrying a concealed weapon by any chance?”

“I am,” says Shane.

“You going to use it?”

“Not unless provoked. We’re just after a little information, Mr. Vargas. Nothing that should trouble you.”

“My friends call me Rico.”

“We’re not your friends.”

Vargas sighs, resigned to whatever trouble we’re bringing to him. “You never know. I’m quite lovable once you get to know me. First let me apologize for the humble surroundings,” he says, indicating the small and dreary room. “I pretty much live in the courthouse and work out of my briefcase, so why waste all that money on an office?”

“You’re a criminal lawyer,” Shane says, making it sound like an accusation.

“A good one, too,” Vargas says. “Mrs. Bickford, you find yourself in need of another attorney, keep me in mind. I’m licensed in Connecticut. Probably bill a whole lot less than whoever you’ve got now.”

The offer has me nonplussed—can he be serious? Shane sees me about to stammer and interjects, “Mrs. Bickford already has very adequate counsel, Mr. Vargas. As I’m sure you’re aware. We’re here to ask a few questions about the custody suit you filed on behalf of Teresa Alonzo.”

“Sorry,” Vargas says lightly. “No can do. Shane, are you a cop? I get this cop feel about you.”

“Licensed investigator,” Shane responds in the clipped, don’t-mess-with-me tone he hasn’t used since our initial contact on the phone.

“Investigator used to be a cop,” Vargas decides, continuing to study him the way a wary zoo attendant studies a caged tiger. “Not a beat cop, either. You’re more the cerebral type. Feds, was it?”

Shane shrugs, as if he doesn’t want to waste time trading guesses. “You can check me out later, Mr. Vargas. I’m sure you’ve got your sources. Right now the subject is you. How a guy who stands in the back of night court hoping for a Public Defender assignment gets himself involved in a kidnapping scheme.”

“Kidnapping?” Vargas looks like he’s suddenly developed intestinal distress. “You serious?”

“Let me guess,” Shane says, leaning his long arms on the table. His splayed-out hands no more than a few inches from the attorney’s plump, manicured fingers. “This lady calling herself Teresa Alonzo comes out of nowhere, drops a nice little fee in your briefcase. Says all you have to do is file the papers.”

“Whoa. Back up. You just said kidnapping,” Vargas says. “That’s a very ugly word. Please explain.”

“You’re part of a conspiracy, Mr. Vargas. That’s my explanation. Maybe you don’t know the details—maybe you didn’t want to know—but now the shit has hit the fan and you’re in it up to your size seventeen neck.”

Vargas touches his collar and sighs. “Go on,” he says. “Insult me all you want.”

“The custody suit you filed? It’s part of a kidnap/murder. Mrs. Bickford’s boy was snatched at a Little League game. She was held against her will. Her bank accounts were ransacked. A cop got killed. Her son is still missing. And there’s an excellent chance that the papers you filed are part of a conspiracy to divert the investigation for a few crucial days. When they get around to checking out Miss Alonzo and find out she’s no more the birth mother of Tommy Bickford than I am, you’ll be hung out to dry. All for what? Five hundred? A thousand? I bet the paperwork was already done, all it needed was your signature. A service you provide for certain clients. Clients with cash, I’m betting.”