I went home and considered the things Turner had told me.

And the more I considered them, the more likely it seemed they were true. I began to believe that Turner really was here on a job, to help rid the world of some porno movie mogul, that Turner’s presence here, a literal stone’s throw from my door, was sheer coincidence.

But sheer coincidences are something I have always had trouble swallowing. This one was no exception. In my line of work, it pays to be skeptical, even paranoid, especially in the face of anything even vaguely coincidental. Otherwise you may find yourself dead. And death is nature’s way of telling you you fucked up.

Still, there was reason to believe Turner, and not just because of his convincing performance: Wilma’s descript- ion of Turner coming and going did not fit the pattern of a guy doing stakeout duty. That supported the notion that the mark was someone other than me.

I was considering all of this while sitting on the couch in the open loft that looks out on the living room of my A-frame cottage. Downstairs, under the loft, were two more bedrooms, a laundry room and a john. A kitchenette was off to one side of the living room. A modest, comfortable little place, with a beautiful lake at the edge of the front yard. It was a home, a life, worth fighting to keep.