Mark Vance, a private investigator, was already waiting with a notebook open on his knee.

He looked at Maya in the stroller and then at the envelope in my hand.

“Five hundred,” I said.

He counted it twice and wrote a receipt on a form from his coat pocket.

“My daily rate is four hundred twelve dollars.”

“A day?”

“Surveillance isn’t a favor.”

I looked up at the third-floor windows of Julian’s firm.