My secretary, Grace, has diligently stayed late with me. I imagine, foolishly, that she merely wants to appear ambitious. She drops a stack of folders on my desk.

“How’s it coming?”

I blink at her, having momentarily forgotten how to communicate on a purely human level.

“Well, believe it or not, I think I’m finally on to something.”

Grace moves around the desk. She stands too close to me, leans over my shoulder to see the computer screen.

“What is it?”

“Well, it seems that Mr. James Tritt isn’t always James Tritt.”

“I don’t get it.”

I don’t really want to let her into my electronic world, but at the same time I welcome the opportunity to show off my skills. I press a few keys, and confidential bank documents appear on the screen.

“Sometimes he’s Jimmy. Tritt named his son after himself, and I think that James Junior has been using his father’s identity.”

“How can you know that?”

“If I have James Junior’s social security number, this program lets me look into his personal accounts at any institution. The deposits and investments correspond to the amounts missing from the father’s accounts.”

Grace squeezes my shoulder. The gesture is just that-a gesture, a simple nonverbal communication. You did it. Congratulations. All the same, I feel awkward. Grace has been my secretary for only a year, and this is the first time that I can recall physical contact between us. The squeeze lingers a moment longer than it should. Then her other hand joins the first. She begins to lightly massage my shoulders. I try to act as though I am grateful, as if I am at ease with this casual contact, while in fact I am not comfortable with it at all. I put my hand over hers. Pat it lightly and pull away.