Then he closed the folder and carried it off.

Outside, the parking meter still had nine minutes left on it.

I stood there on the sidewalk beside it and used up all nine of them.

At a quarter to four the club parking lot smelled of fresh-cut grass and somebody’s expensive cigar.

Wyatt came out with his golf clubs on his shoulder and stopped short when he spotted me beside the sedan.

“Pop the trunk,” I said.