Dortmunder didn't really look at the picture, just gave it a skim before he shook his head and said, with regret, "Sorry, I never saw him before."

"You see him every morning when you shave," Eppick said.

Dortmunder frowned. What was this, a trick? Was that himself in the picture? Trying to recognize himself in that burdened figure there, that crumpled-over dark comma against the bricks, he said, "What's goin on here?"

"That's the back of an H & R Block," Eppick told him. "It's Sunday afternoon, it isn't tax season, they're closed. You took four computers out of there, don't you remember?"

Vaguely, Dortmunder did. Of course, when you're at your job, after a while the work all blends together. Carefully, he said, "I'm pretty sure that isn't me."

"Listen, John," Eppick said, then paused to pretend he was polite, saying, "You don't mind if I call you John, do you?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"That's good. John, the point is, if I wanted to turn some evidence on you over to some former co-workers of mine, you'd already be in a place where everything goes clang-clang, you know what I mean?"

"No," Dortmunder said.

"It seems to me pretty clear," Eppick said. "One hand washes the other."

Dortmunder nodded. Pointing his jaw at the picture, he said, "Which hand is that?"

"What you want, John—"

"Well, the negative, I guess."

Sadly Eppick shook his head. "Sorry, John," he said. "Digital. It's in the computer forever. One you won't be carrying anywhere, not even to that fence friend of yours, that Arnie Albright."