Lupercio described it for the third time. It was plain to him that some kind of experience with law enforcement had taught the Bull the power of repeated questioning. Lupercio had been questioned by every American law enforcement agency from the FBI on down to the local police and sheriffs, and he had never been asked a question just once. Never. He wondered again if the Bull’s experience had been as the questioner or the questioned.

“Yellow?”

“Yes.”

“Model year?”

Lupercio told him again. As far as he was concerned the Bull could ask him a thousand more times, if that’s what it would take to convince him that a young brown-haired woman in a yellow Corvette had almost certainly driven off with the diamonds, not Lupercio. The Bull had told him before that Lupercio had “final responsibility” for his work. That was why Lupercio was paid such high commissions. Responsibility was what the Bull looked for in a partner. It was more valuable than any metal or any stone from the earth, he said. Responsibility was the son of faith, whatever that meant.

Lupercio turned and looked out the big windows. The morning light was full now, and the container ships and tugs and port cranes continued their eternal transportation of the world’s goods. One of the Bull’s men passed by the window wearing a suit and sunglasses and a tiny wireless headset fixed between one ear and his shaven chocolate-colored head.

“And the year and make of the Sheriff ’s patrol car?”

Lupercio turned and told the Bull the information for the second time in ten minutes.

“Did you get the unit number off the side of the cruiser?”

Lupercio gave it again.

The Bull tapped rapidly on the far right keyboard, then rolled to his left and looked down on Lupercio. Lupercio heard a whirring sound.

“Describe the inside of Miracle Auto Body,” said the Bull. “Focus on the location of the men and your interpretation of what happened there.”