I bolted out of my Jeep, ran back into Dave’s office, and slammed the door. My heart was pounding a mile a minute, and I expected any moment to hear a thumping kaboom from the parking lot. Dave, standing at the grimy computer behind the battered counter, blinked at me in surprise. The pop machine hummed quietly in the corner, and NASCAR race cars whizzed around a track on the TV. Through a giant plate-glass window, I could see Dave’s employees working on half a dozen cars. Parts were scattered about like bits of meat in a Civil War operating room, and I wondered what would happen if the plate glass shattered in an explosion.

“Something wrong with the Jeep?” Dave asked. He’s in his early fifties, silver hair receding at the temples and thinning on top. Like every other mechanic I’ve ever met, his hands are scarred and permanently stained with grease.

I shook my head, pulled out my cell, and punched 911. “I’m at Dave’s Garage in downtown Ann Arbor,” I told the operator. “And I think someone’s planted a bomb in my car.”

That brought Dave around the counter. He dashed for the front door, his eyes wide and white. I grabbed his elbow and jerked him to a stop. “Don’t go near it,” I hissed. “Just keep an eye on it and stop anyone who might get close.”

Dave nodded and stationed himself by the door.

Next I called Ms. Hawk, who agreed that we should postpone the meeting with Belinda. I was just hanging up when sirens screamed around the corner. Two police cars and a white van pulled into Dave’s tiny parking lot. The car shared by Carl dela Cort and Henrietta Flinch parked itself at the curb. A moment later, both detectives dashed inside, their faces tight and drawn. Two uniformed officers followed.

“What’s this all about?” Henrietta asked.

By now I was feeling a little calmer. I had fed a dollar into the pop machine and slugged down most of a Diet Mountain Dew, so the caffeine was steadying my nerves. Valium is for wimps.

“Yesterday afternoon my car wouldn’t start,” I said. “I had it towed here for repairs. Dave said the spark plug wires were loose, and he put them back in. When I came to pick it up, I found a jack-in-the-box on the front seat. I touched it, and it popped open. The clown was holding a note that said BOOM. I jumped out of the car and called you guys.”

“Jesus,” Dave said.

I downed another gulp of Dew. “In light of the pictures, I figured the threat might be real.”

“Someone has it in for you, sweets,” Carl said. His notebook was out and he was scribbling furiously. “You think there really could be a bomb in your car or was this just a warning?”

I cocked my head. Carl’s earlier chauvinistic attitude seemed to have lessened quite a bit. “Dunno. I don’t want to turn the key and find out the hard way.”

Henrietta asked me a couple more questions while Carl talked to Dave, but no new information turned up. Dave said he had no idea where the jack-in-the-box came from, and he didn’t remember seeing it in my Jeep when he parked it in the lot, which had to mean someone had put it there this afternoon. My Jeep hadn’t been locked, so anyone could have walked up.

One of the uniforms spoke into his microphone. Someone crackled an acknowledgment, and outside two men in bulky off-white bomb suits got out of the van. They trundled toward my Jeep. The officers gently but firmly ushered us out of the garage to a safe distance away.

A crowd was gathering around the perimeter tape the cops had set up, and a news van had already arrived. Cars slowed as they passed on the sun-drenched street. A bus rolled by, spewing the sharp smell of diesel exhaust. Someone touched my arm, and I found Slava standing next to me. She was wearing a red blouse and a voluminous pair of white slacks. Her curly black hair had been forced into a long, chunky braid that hung down her back.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, startled.

“I see big crowd gather and come to gawk,” she said without a trace of shame. “Then I see you and know you must be cause. What is going on?”

I gave her a ten-second explanation in low tones that went no farther than the two of us. Slava’s face hardened and she put an arm around my shoulders. She smelled faintly of tobacco smoke.

“Sons of bitches,” she muttered. “Bad as KGB. Give me five minutes alone with them, they never bother you again. My mother always say, ‘You can’t run if legs are broken.’”

That got a smile from me, and I felt a little less uneasy.

The guys in white continued to work on my car. And then Ms. Hawk found us in the crowd. She wore a severely tailored navy suit with a small matching bag. The silver hawk pendant gleamed at her throat. Her serene, competent presence granted me even more relief than Slava had. It was good to have people looking out for you.

“I ran over from the office,” Ms. Hawk said calmly. “You’re having an interesting series of days.”

Inside the perimeter, the bomb guys had opened the hood of my Jeep. They’d already checked underneath and gone through the inside. I held my breath. I didn’t really think there was a bomb in there, but—

One of the bomb guys pulled off his headgear and waved an okay at the officers. A ripple went through the crowd and my knees quivered with relief. Some of the crowd drifted away, but most of the people stayed, clearly hoping for more of a show.

A TV reporter with a microphone was moving through the crowd, asking if anyone knew whose Jeep was involved. Ms. Hawk and I exchanged looks, and as one we slipped away and ducked into the garage’s office. Slava followed. Henrietta and Carl were both there, talking to one of the bomb guys.

“Your Jeep?” the bomb guy asked. At my nod, he said, “It’s clean. We didn’t find any kind of explosive.”

“Makes for a boring day,” I managed.

“Best kind, in my line of work,” he said, and gave me my key back. I didn’t even remember giving it to the cops.

“Are you going to be all right?” Henrietta asked solicitously.

“I think so,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more this feels like empty threat. If whoever’s behind all this really wanted me dead, all it would take is a high-powered rifle from a distance.”

“Don’t laugh, chicky-boo,” Carl said. “Warnings escalate. I see it all the time. You just watch yourself.” Then, as if he had realized he was expressing concern, he added, “Because I don’t want to be stuck hosing your blood off the sidewalk.” Then he strode quickly out the door.

I turned to Henrietta. “What was that all about? He’s been acting almost human lately.”

“This whole thing touched a nerve with him,” Henrietta said quietly. “Carl’s son is gay, and—”

“He has a son?” I interrupted. “That implies a wife. And actual physical contact with her.”

Slava lit a cigarette. “They say there is someone for everyone,” she said.

“And he’s gay?” I continued. “I’ll bet that coming out went over well.”

“They were on the outs for a while,” Henrietta said. “But then Jeff received a bomb threat, one addressed to ‘The Fag,’ though his bomb turned out to be real. Jeff didn’t die, but he spent six weeks in the hospital, and he still walks with a limp. Carl hates bomb threats.”

“As if I needed more sobering thoughts today,” I muttered.

“Do you need anything else, Detective?” Ms. Hawk asked.

“Terry needs to stop down at the station sometime this evening or early tomorrow and sign a statement,” she said. “We’ve taken the jack-in-the-box as evidence. Do you want a receipt for it?”

“God, no,” I said.

“Then that’s pretty much it for now.”

The door opened and a dark-haired, square-jawed, blow-dried reporter strode in. A cameraman followed. “Can anyone tell me whose Jeep that is out there?” he boomed. “It’s yours, right ma’am?” This last was addressed to me.

I froze like a deer in headlights. The stress of the entire incident combined with the unexpected question to lock down my higher brain functions. The reporter took my lack of response for a “yes” and started forward, holding his microphone out like a royal scepter. I blanched. A Hawk Enterprises employee appearing on television news—bad, bad, bad. Too many old enemies floating around out there, too many disgruntled men. I shot Ms. Hawk a desperate glance, but if she stepped forward, the camera would only focus on her, which would be just as bad.

“Is my Jeep,” Slava said, leaping in front of me. Her expression was wild eyed and frantic. “It was horrible! Just awful! Terrible men break into helpless woman’s car to plant bomb. Just like KGB. I tell everything to handsome reporter. You turn on camera and listen good.”

Ms. Hawk and I were already out the door. We both leaped into my Jeep and I put the key into the ignition. There was a moment when the two of us traded looks. Then I held my breath and turned the key. The Jeep purred to life as if nothing at all had ever happened to it. The door to Dave’s office opened and the dark-haired, square-jawed, blow-dried reporter sprinted out, the cameraman hot on his heels. Slava stood grinning in the doorway.

The reporter shouted something, but I was already peeling out of the parking lot. I was giggling and Ms. Hawk shook her head with a small, restrained laugh. Our laughter increased until I was wiping my eyes, barely keeping control of the Jeep and Ms. Hawk was laughing like a little girl. Release of stress, I suppose, though it felt odd to be sharing a laugh with someone like Ms. Hawk. It was like seeing a cat with a fit of the giggles.

Ms. Hawk’s cell phone rang, and she answered, a wide smile still on her face. “Diana Hawk.” Her face brightened. “Hello, darling. You got my message, then? Yes, a few things have come up and I’ll be a little late tonight. How’s eight-thirty instead? Good. See you then.”

She clicked off.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” I said, greatly daring.

“Mmmm.”

“What’s his name?”

She arched an eyebrow and fingered the hawk pendant at her throat. “All the men in my life are named ‘Darling’ until I find the one who is willing to become Mr. Hawk.”

“You mean you wouldn’t change your name to—”

“Certainly not.”

Funny thing is, I couldn’t tell if she was kidding. I turned my full attention to the street, realizing just how little I knew about Diana Hawk. I didn’t even know how or why she had started Hawk Enterprises. Sure, I’d done some checking around. The paper trail on Hawk Enterprises began about five years ago, but we have files going back at least six. I’ve never asked Ms. Hawk, and she’s never volunteered. Maybe one day.

As we continued down the street, Ms. Hawk called Belinda to tell her we were on our way and to apologize for our tardiness, though she told me in an aside that she had left a note for Belinda on the office door, along with a key so she could get inside with the air conditioning. Our client was waiting for us on the window seat, paperback book in her hand, purse at her feet. She wore a different sun dress, a blue one with white buttons this time, but still Neiman Marcus-y, and she carried a different handbag—Prada, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Ms. Hawk sailed in and escorted Belinda into the conference room with more apologies but no explanations. Belinda accepted this with quiet equanimity as we settled around the table. The battered notebook and the shoebox with the documents sat to one side, and Belinda eyed them with curiosity, though she made no move to touch them.

“We have a great deal to discuss,” Ms. Hawk said. Her firm demeanor and her navy suit made it clear she was in charge here, no matter how many checks Belinda might write. “Terry, why don’t you tell Ms. Harris what you’ve learned so far?”

I outlined what Zack and I had learned about the paper treasure, the Peale family history, and the Chicago Peales. I left out the pictures and the bomb threat. Hawk Enterprises doesn’t worry its clients unless absolutely necessary.

“Did you know about the treasure?” Ms. Hawk said.

“I’d heard of it from my mother,” Belinda said, her eyes a little wide, “but I’d dismissed it as a legend. It’s sounds so improbable, you understand—a bunch of papers or a diary worth a fortune. Do you think it’s real?”

“Someone does,” I said.

Belinda jerked her head at the shoebox. “Is it in there?”

“No,” Ms. Hawk said, drawing the box to her. Even this simple movement crackled with energy. “We found your uncles’ wills and various other papers you might need, including your grandmother’s divorce records.”

“Really?” She clapped her hands in delight. “That’s wonderful! How on earth did you find them so fast?”

“Actually Zack found them,” I said. “He came across a room filled with papers and found them.”

“Then I’m certainly glad I asked you to include him,” Belinda said with a twinkly smile. “Have you read them? I don’t know if I should open that box, you understand. Mold.”

“Of course.” Ms. Hawk tapped the box lid. “Your uncles appear to have left their estates to each other.”

“Oh dear,” Belinda sighed. “This will make things so much more complicated. Well, family’s family, and I’ll do what I can.”

“Do you think the house would go to you?” I asked.

“Probably,” Belinda said. “I’m their closest living relative, as far as I know. The house is probably a total loss, you understand, but I’ve done some checking and the property is worth quite a lot.”

“We also found this,” Ms. Hawk said, and slid the notebook over to Belinda. “Does it mean anything to you?”

Belinda flipped the notebook open and leafed through it. “Well, it’s Uncle Lawrence’s handwriting. The last entry is dated around the time of his last letter. Other than that, I have no idea. What does it mean?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Ms. Hawk said. “Terry learned that the Chicago branch of the Peale family is known for smuggling, though the police have never managed to prove it. Lately, rumor has it the street supply of drugs the Chicago Peales usually spread about has dried up and that the family is involved in something new. I’m wondering if this notebook might have something to do with that. Do you now know anything that might be helpful?”

“The Chicago Peales are criminals?” Belinda said, clearly taken aback. “My lord! Where did you hear this?”

“We have contacts in Chicago,” I said. “You really didn’t know about this?”

“I had no idea.” Belinda fanned herself with one hand. “I don’t know anything about them, really. Drug smugglers! That’s terrible!”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Ms. Hawk interjected.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just a little shocked, you understand.”

“Would you like some tea?” I said. “Coffee? A soda?”

“No, no. Thank you.” Belinda drew herself up in her chair. “We might share blood, but they aren’t me. May I keep that notebook? I can look at it some more and see if anything comes to me.”

“It came from your uncles’ house,” Ms. Hawk said, “so you are certainly entitled to keep anything you wish. Though may I ask that we keep the original and give you a photocopy?”

“Please,” Belinda said.

I felt like I was at a tea party, everyone was so excruciatingly polite. Southern manners meet Diana Hawk. Ms. Hawk gave me the notebook and I popped out to the entry area, where we keep the copy machine. When I returned, Ms. Hawk was giving Belinda a more detailed description of the house’s interior.

“Those poor men,” Belinda said, shaking her head. “What’s the next step in your investigation?”

“We need to look into the warehouse mentioned in the notebook,” Ms. Hawk said.

“What will you be looking for?”

“Anything that might tell us what’s going on with the Chicago Peales,” Ms. Hawk replied.

“Back in the days of Prohibition, Detroit was a major entry point for illegal liquor coming in from Canada and even overseas. Bootleggers, which no doubt included your family, ran alcohol down Michigan Avenue from Detroit to Chicago. Nowadays they use I-94, and the illegal materials are drugs, but the general principle is the same. No doubt the Chicago Peales have been using this warehouse as an entry point for quite some time, possibly even for generations. They’ve stopped smuggling drugs, but I doubt they’ve stopped smuggling altogether. We need to learn what they’re up to.”

“How does this relate to my uncles and the treasure?” Belinda asked.

“I don’t know,” Ms. Hawk admitted. “That’s why we need to investigate.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, and we ushered Belinda to the door. Once she was gone, I said, “When do you want to leave for the warehouse?”

“Just after dark,” Ms. Hawk said. “I would prefer not to be observed.”

Ms. Hawk left the office. I passed the time at my desk, looking up directions to the warehouse on MapQuest, catching up on filing, answering e-mail, and performing other sundry tasks. After a while I realized I was engaged in busy work, putting off something I knew needed doing. The sun headed for the horizon, and I tapped a pencil against a message pad, chewing the inside of my cheek. My dad’s voice popped into my head: The longer you put it off, the harder it gets.

I sighed. Words of wisdom from a surprising source. Well, my dad wasn’t all bad. No one is. Yeah, Dad liked to drink and slap and think up some weird-ass punishments for stupid little shit, and yeah, he liked to pretend he had more money than he did, but he paid all my college bills and didn’t seem to mind that I changed majors at least once a semester. I dropped out of college and married Noel partly to piss Dad off, not realizing that I had run away from my father only to marry someone even worse.

Anyway, Dad was right—the longer I put it off, the harder it would get. So I picked up the phone and dialed the home number of Wendy Schultz, a woman I know who works in the Washtenaw County sheriff’s department.

“Wendy,” I said after hearing about her kids, her dogs, and the latest complaints about her neighbors, “when you get in to work tomorrow, could you run a background check on someone for me? It’s worth lunch.”

“Oh, sure, hon,” Wendy said. Gum cracked in my ear, and I imagined Wendy sitting on the couch with her feet up, her wild red hair poofing out in all directions. “What’s the name?”

“Zackary Archer.”

“You better spell that, hon,” she said, and her gum cracked again. “And give me any aliases he might have.”

I spelled Zack’s name for her. “I don’t know if he has any aliases,” I said. “But let me know anything you might find.”

I hung up and dashed home, feeling oddly guilty. I wasn’t snooping, I told myself. I needed to learn more about Zack and his motivations. The problem was I liked Zack. He was funny and smart and damned sexy. I didn’t want to learn anything bad about him. But I also knew it was stupid to ignore various suspicions.

Back at the Biemers’, I grabbed a snack to make up for missed supper, breezed past the other residents—the Biemers had long since retired to their basement apartment—and headed to my room, where I put up my hair and pulled on my black Catwoman outfit. All the better for skulking in, my dear. I exited out my sliding door and made my way through the back yard to my Jeep. Easier to sneak out than explain my outfit to the other boarders. It was already dark out, and crickets chirped all around me. Warm air slid sultry around me, and I felt like a creature of the night, gliding around the oak tree and across the grass to the driveway. I got into my Jeep and drove down to the office. Ms. Hawk, also dressed in dark clothing, was waiting in the foyer. We made a hell of a pair, slinking back out to the parking lot like two black cats on the prowl.

We decided to drive separately to the warehouse because sometimes it’s best to have two getaway vehicles. I was armed to the teeth—pistol, pepper spray, illegal stun gun, and my own two hands. My cell phone was plugged into my ear so Ms. Hawk and I could talk to each other without being overheard. I followed my GPS directions carefully—even with detailed instructions, it gets tricky driving around Detroit, especially at night.

Downtown Detroit’s national reputation as a crime-ridden city is exaggerated. Slightly. A little. I kept my windows up, the doors locked, and my senses alert. The casino district is well lit and quite clean—the casinos don’t want potential gamblers to be frightened away by anything unseemly—but the areas around it are a little nerve-wracking. Streets are studded with half-wrecked buildings of crumbling brick, some boarded up, others not. Street lamps are often broken, leaving large sections of town in a blanket of dark pierced only by headlights of passing cars.

Eventually I reached a section of warehouses down by the river in what had to be some of the most depressing areas to work ever. I checked the directions again and located the building. It looked perfectly anonymous, surrounded by a litter of near-identical brothers and sisters. I found a side street where I could park my Jeep, took a quick look around, locked my steering wheel with a big red bar that said, “Sorry pal—you ain’t driving this Jeep anywhere,” and got out. Ms. Hawk parked a little ways up the street and got out herself. She looked like a shadow pouring itself into a pool of ink. I switched on my cell phone’s walkie-talkie function and set it to voice activation.

“Can you hear me?” I murmured.

By her car, Ms. Hawk put a hand to her ear and nodded. “I hear you, Terry. Let’s get into that alley, shall we?”

The area was not well lit, which worked to our advantage. We slipped into a wide alley that ran between two warehouses. Cracked concrete pushed against the soles of my shoes, and ahead of me I smelled dirty water. The Detroit River is a ribbon that connects Lake Huron to Lake Erie and is more of a channel than a river, a narrow place where Michigan’s thumb almost touches Canada.

The warm night air was humid enough to drink. Water lapped against a dock in the distance, and through the mouth of the alley I saw a large boat or small ship drifting slowly down the river, its running lights ablaze. For a moment I was back in Russia, hunting down little Andy and rescuing his fellow slaves, though it had been way colder in Moscow.

Bright lights illuminated the side of the warehouse that faced the river. A set of huge loading doors took up most of that wall. Near the corner stood a normal-sized door, though it still looked formidably thick and heavy, and it was brightly lit. A car whooshed by in the street behind me, and I glanced around nervously.

“Do you see anyone watching?” Ms. Hawk asked, her voice echoing in my earpiece.

“No,” I said. “Which doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone.”

“Well, this is why we get paid. Keep an eye out.” With that, Ms. Hawk drew on a pair of black latex gloves and strode boldly to the small door, a bag slung over her shoulder. I held my breath. God, she had nerve. The door was locked, of course, with both a deadbolt and a spring lock. Ms. Hawk knelt to examine the locks, then opened a small case from her belt and extracted a pair of tools. The spring lock barely slowed her down. The deadbolt took a little more work, but Ms. Hawk worked patiently at it. I tried to watch in all directions at once, feeling exposed and vulnerable even though I was still in the alley.

One minute went by. Then two. Ms. Hawk’s expression didn’t change. She looked like she had every right to be poking at the door with picklocks and who would dare question her? I, on the other hand, was starting to sweat. Every shadow held a posse of gang members with guns, or a collection of cops with guns, or—

I heard a click, and Ms. Hawk pushed the door open with a gloved hand. I had already pulled my own gloves on, and I hurried into the warehouse after her. Ms. Hawk quickly shut the door and threw the deadbolt. Next to the door, a keypad flashed insistently. A digital countdown informed us we had less than a minute to enter the proper code. Without a word, I pulled a small electric screwdriver from my belt and had the cover off the alarm in seven seconds. Ms. Hawk was already attaching a lead to the netbook she had pulled from her shoulder bag, and she connected it the moment the cover came away. She tapped at the screen while I held my breath.

“It’s not a complicated alarm,” Ms. Hawk murmured. “We should be able to—there.”

The countdown flicked from twenty-eight seconds to two hours. I had no idea where she’d learned that trick, but I was grateful she had.

“That should be enough time.” Ms. Hawk slid the netbook back into her bag. “And much easier to change the timer than hack the access code.”

As one, we turned to face the warehouse. Only a few scattered lights were on, leaving most of the echoing space in shadow. Both of us took out flashlights and shined them around. The place wasn’t that big, as warehouses go. Maybe half a dozen semis could park inside. A catwalk made a lattice overhead, and one section had been walled off for office space.

“I don’t suppose,” I muttered, “that we’ll find any crates conveniently marked Contraband or Smuggler stuff.”

“Doubtful. Let’s spread out.”

There were indeed a few wooden crates scattered around the floor, but the ones I could open were empty. Every sound echoed around me, and I could hear Ms. Hawk rustling around in another section. My senses were on high alert. My own breathing rasped in my ears and my hands sweated inside my latex gloves. Something clattered to the floor and I jumped, my hands snapping into fighting stance.

“That was just me,” Ms. Hawk’s voice said in my earpiece.

I got my heart started again, then moved around a clump of crates and barked my shins painfully against something that made a metallic hissing sound against the floor. I heard Ms. Hawk’s quick intake of breath in my ear.

“And that was just me,” I said, shining my flashlight over the object. Several objects, actually. Wire gleamed in my beam. I stared for a long moment, then said, “Ms. Hawk, you might want to come and see this.”

Crisp footsteps approached behind me, and I played my flashlight over the wire kennels scattered about the concrete floor. Each was big enough to house a German shepherd, or maybe a small St. Bernard, and each one sported a set of plastic dog dishes.

“The Peales are smuggling dogs?” I said. “That’s…unexpected.”

“And I can’t imagine it’s anything as profitable as drugs,” Ms. Hawk said, playing her own flashlight around. I counted over a dozen kennels. They looked to be the sort people put their dogs in before going to work. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

We split up again, and a few minutes later, Ms. Hawk called me over to the office area. She already had the lock open and had turned the lights on. The large room beyond was almost bare. A card table and folding chairs sat in one corner. Two dirty ashtrays lay on top of it. A door opened onto a dirty bathroom with a moldy shower stall. Near the table were piled several cardboard boxes. I rummaged through them.

“Dry cereal, canned spaghetti, beef stew, beans,” I said. “Food for thought?”

Ms. Hawk was standing in the middle of the room, toying with her hawk pendant. “Where do they keep their records?” she muttered. “There has to be something.”

A black cord caught my eye, and I picked it up. It was the power brick to a laptop computer. “It looks like they don’t leave them here.”

“Eminently sensible of them,” she said. “We should leave, Terry. I don’t think we’re going to find anything helpful.”

I agreed. We still had half an hour on the alarm system, and Ms. Hawk didn’t bother resetting it on our way out. If the alarm went off and anyone came to investigate, they’d find nothing but a locked, empty warehouse.

Outside, I stood guard again while Ms. Hawk relocked the door. We were heading for the alley when Ms. Hawk abruptly dove ahead of me into the darkness. Someone yelped and I heard a thud, but my body was already moving. I rushed into the alley, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. My heart pounded the rhythm of adrenaline. I crossed my wrists so my pistol hand was steadied on my flashlight hand, allowing me to sweep the alley with light wherever my pistol pointed. The beam landed squarely on Ms. Hawk’s lithe form. She had someone in a half nelson on the alley ground. Her victim was struggling to break free. I aimed my pistol upward—I didn’t want to hit Ms. Hawk—and scooted around them until I could get to the person she was fighting with. Shadows and the bobbing light of my flashlight made it hard to see.

“Freeze, asshole!” I snarled, pressing the pistol against his temple.

He froze. Ms. Hawk disengaged and backed away, drawing her own pistol in the process.

“Good work, Terry,” she said, and my heart swelled with pride.

“Lie face-down on the ground,” I barked at her victim. “Move!”

“Yuck,” he said.

“What?” I replied, caught off-guard. It wasn’t the response I’d been expecting.

“I’m not lying down. I think someone peed here.”

The tension drained out of me. I holstered my pistol and shined my light more carefully. It illuminated the face of Zack Archer.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Same thing you are,” Zack said. “Sniffing around the warehouse from Uncle Lawrence’s notebook. You mind getting that light out of my eyes? I can’t see the delightful animal snarl on your face.”

I shut the flashlight off. Zack stood blinking in the dim light of the alley for a moment, then leaned casually against one wall. “So what did you find out?”

“Why should we tell you?” I said.

“To save me the trouble of breaking in and finding out for myself. Duh.”

“How are you with alarm systems?” I asked a little nastily. “As good as you are at picking locks?”

“Just as good as Ms. Hawk here,” Zack shot back.

“Mr. Archer can pick locks?” Ms. Hawk said.

Oops. Hadn’t I mentioned that to her? I tried to remember, but so much had happened since I caught Zack with his little tools.

“It’s a hobby,” Zack said with an amiable smile. “Maybe we can trade tips sometime.”

“Can you circumvent a burglar alarm, too?” I asked.

“Meh.” Zack shrugged. “The police almost never answer those, you know. Too many false alarms. If one goes off, you have a couple-three hours before the cops show.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I read the newspapers,” Zack said nonchalantly. “There was an article about it not that long ago.”

“I don’t know that this is the best place to discuss it,” Ms. Hawk said.

“Yeah, this place isn’t all that fun,” Zack said. “Want to get something to eat? All three of us, of course.”

I looked at those green eyes and really wanted to. But my brain told me it would be a bad idea until I heard back from Wendy.

“No,” I said, turning to head for the car.

“Then at least tell me what you found out,” Zack said reasonably. “I’ll tell you what I found.”

“We didn’t find much of anything,” Ms. Hawk said as we reached my Jeep. “A laptop cord, some dog kennels and some canned goods.”

“Dog food?” Zack asked.

“Spaghetti-Os,” I told him. “Looks like the smugglers had some snacks laid by.”

“Which means they stay for long periods of time,” Zack pointed out.

Something itched at the back of my mind when he said that. I tried to put my finger on it, but whatever it was danced away from me.

Ms. Hawk nodded. “Perhaps they do. Now would you be so kind, Mr. Archer, as to tell us your findings?”

Zack leaned against the hood of my Jeep. “I found a lookout post on the warehouse roof.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I climbed to the top to see if there was an easier way in, and I found a pile of old clothes wrapped around a ratty sleeping bag. Judging by the condition of the clothes, no one’s been up there in quite a while.”

“How can you tell that?” Ms. Hawk asked.

“There was a bird’s nest in them. I also found these.” He held up a pair of binoculars that looked old enough to have stormed the beach at Normandy. “Someone’s been watching this place, though not for a while now.”

I thought of the notebook and its records of all the comings and goings. “Uncle Lawrence?”

“Sounds likely.”

We split up and climbed into our respective vehicles. Zack rattled off in his VW bus. I drove back to Ann Arbor in a puzzled fog of whys. As in, why had Uncle Lawrence been watching the warehouse? Why were the Peales smuggling dogs? Why did Zack’s comment about the smugglers needing the food because they stayed for long periods bug me?

I thought about it as I pulled into the Biemers’ driveway and I thought about it as I undressed and I thought about it as I climbed into bed, but nothing came to me. Eventually I fell asleep and dreamed that Ms. Hawk was calling to me in the Peale mansion, but I couldn’t get through all the junk to find her. I finally reached her, but she was Zack instead, and he fell into a deep pit before I could touch him.

In the morning, Ms. Hawk called to say she was working on something else. Would I be willing to go back to the mansion and look around some more to see if anything else turned up? I told her I would be happy to and was just clicking off when the phone chirped again. It was Wendy Schultz.

“I’ve got the goods on Zack Archer, hon,” she said. “You sitting down?”

I sank to my bed. “Go,” I said.

“Mr. Archer has quite the interesting history. Three arrests for B-and-E and burglary.” Gum cracked in my ear and I heard Wendy’s chair squeak. She had to be sitting in front of her computer terminal at work. “The first two times he was released for lack of evidence. The third time was the charm. He was sentenced to two years, and he served ten months. His mug shots are pretty cute. A real looker, hon.”

“I know,” I said faintly. “Where did all this happen?”

“Detroit once, Ann Arbor once, and Grosse Isle once. That last one is where he got sentenced. He stole some valuable artwork from a private collection.”

Treasure, I thought.

“Lots of notes on him in here, too,” Wendy continued. “He was suspected—but never arrested—for several other break-ins. Museums, galleries, private homes.”

“When did he serve his sentence?” I asked.

The gum cracked again. “Six years ago, hon. There’s nothing about him after that, actually. Either he went straight or he got a lot more careful.”

I grimaced. Zack did say he had gotten into trouble for breaking into someone’s house when he was young and stupid, but he had said it was on a dare, not that he made a career out of it. “Is there anything else?” I asked, dreading to hear an answer.

“Last known addresses are all in Detroit or Ann Arbor. Do you want those?”

“Not really.”

“Mother’s name Eileen Archer, once a resident of Ypsilanti, now deceased.” Crack, crack.

“Father’s name is…oh. That’s odd.”

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Apparently this guy has his mother’s last name and not his father’s. A little strange but not unheard of these days.”

I grabbed the phone with both hands. “What’s his father’s name?”

“Says here it’s Arthur Peale.”