“Coffee.” Miriam considered. “That would be good.”

“Yeah, well.” Paulette stood up. “Read this, it’ll save us both some time.” She pointed out a two-inch-thick sheaf of printouts and photocopies to Miriam, then made a beeline for the departmental coffeepot.

Miriam sighed and rubbed her eyes as she read the first page. Paulie had done her job with terrifying efficiency yet again: Miriam had only worked with her on a couple of investigations before—mostly Miriam’s workload didn’t require the data mining Paulette specialized in—but every single time she’d come away feeling a little dizzy.

Automobile emissions tests in California? Miriam squinted and turned the page. Failed autos, a chain of repair shops buying them for cash and shipping them south to Mexico and Brazil for stripping or resale. “What’s this got to do with—” she stopped. “Aha!”

“Nondairy creamer, one sweetener,” said Paulie, planting a coffee mug at her left hand.

“This is great stuff,” Miriam muttered, flipping more pages. Company accounts. A chain of repair shops that—“I was hoping you’d find something in the small shareholders. How much are these guys in for?”

“They’re buying about ten, eleven million in shares each year.” Paulette shrugged, then blew across her coffee and pulled a face. “Which is crazy, because their business only turns over about fifteen mill. What kind of business puts eighty percent of its gross into a pension fund? One that bought two hundred and seventy-four autos last year for fifty bucks a shot, shipped them south of the border, and made an average of forty thousand bucks for each one they sold. And the couple of listed owners I phoned didn’t want to talk.”

Miriam looked up suddenly. “You phoned them?” she demanded.

“Yes, I—oh. Relax, I told them I was a dealership in Vegas and I was just doing a background check.”