It must have been pickled in perfume. A pungent cloud hits my nostrils when I unfold it. Shalimar, if I'm not mistaken.

The note itself, however, couldn't be more cut and dried. Three letters, three numbers: I Z D 2 3 5.

I slip away from the house and walk back through the fields of shining metal until I find them on a New York license plate screwed into the svelte behind of a forest green Benz convertible.

I slide into the front passenger seat and start pushing buttons to make myself feel welcome. With a comforting whir, windows drop into doors, the roof parts, and Dean Martin's wiseass baritone pours out of a dozen speakers.

I check behind the visor. Nothing.

Then I fish around in the compartment between the seats. Inside a Robert Marc sunglasses case is a long, thin joint dressed up with a pink ribbon. I spark it up and blow a yellowish wreath across the full moon.

I'm thinking this isn't half bad – getting baked as Dino confides about a French lady named Mimi – when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Hi, Frank," I say without even bothering to twist around in my cushy leather chair.

"Hey, Rabbit," says Frank, reaching through the window for the joint. "Get laid yet?"

Frank is Frank Volpi, chief detective with the East Hampton Police Department and the only cop you're likely to see sporting a platinum Rolex. Then again, Volpi logged two tours of duty in Vietnam before tackling crime in his own backyard. So you could argue that he has it coming.

"You know me, Frank. I don't kiss and tell."

"Since when?"

"Why, gee, since last night with your wife."

This distinctly male excuse for conversation continues until the joint is burning our fingertips. Then Frank staggers off into the fragrant night, and I sit tight with Dino in the Benz.