“I poured the last cup out on the asphalt yesterday,” I told him.

I snapped the briefcase lock shut, put the truck in gear, and pulled out onto the empty street.

Two blocks from the lab entrance, I pulled over under a streetlamp and switched on the cab light.

I opened the briefcase again and took the certified lab result sheet out of the yellow folder.

My hand was shaking as I held the paper close to the steering wheel, reading the name of the chemical typed across the top line in heavy black print.

I folded the lab sheet and pushed it deep into my inside coat pocket before stepping into the elevator at Garrett’s building on Turtle Creek Boulevard.