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A distributor in Milwaukee wanted to know whether I still wanted the extra shipment of Purple Rain cassettes I'd asked him to hold.

“Yes.”

Prince had been selling faster than we could keep the display full, and I'd learned years ago that the quickest way to guarantee customers would ask for something was to run out of it.

When I hung up, Brian looked up from his legal pad and said, “We already have twenty-six.”

“We'll sell them.”

“You said that about Air Supply.”

I nodded. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

“You made eleven.”

I picked up the nearest pencil and tossed it at him as he caught it against his chest and grinned. “Found my pencil.”

The bell over the door rang, and the man who walked in didn't look like someone hunting for an album.

He was somewhere in his forties, with brown hair cut neatly above his ears and enough gray at the temples to make him look slightly older from a distance. His tan summer suit was well made without being flashy, and he'd skipped the tie, although his pale blue shirt was buttoned almost to the collar. A brown leather folder was tucked beneath one arm.

He stopped just inside the doorway, taking in Brian on the floor, the boxes crowding the aisles, Otis blocking the easiest route to the counter, and me standing behind the register holding half a sausage biscuit.

“Morning,” I said. “Inventory day. Feel free to browse.”

“Good morning.”

His voice was quiet and even, the kind that made people lean closer.

Otis raised his head as the man glanced down at him. “Am I allowed through?”

“Depends whether you're carrying ham.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Step over his rear leg. He doesn't like anybody bumping it.”

The man did exactly that, careful not to touch Otis, which earned him more approval from me than it probably should have.

Brian watched him approach with obvious interest, then looked down at his count sheet with the exaggerated concentration he used whenever something interesting happened nearby and he wanted me to believe he wasn't listening.

“Dean Wyatt?” the man asked.

“That's me.”

He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and set it on the counter.

Martin Vale

Vale Investigative Services

Madison, Wisconsin

A phone number sat beneath the name. Nothing else.

I looked up at him.

“I'm trying to locate someone connected to a business matter,” he said. “Either Alan Ellsworth or his son, Paul.”