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irrefutable identification, and your fingerprints are taken. That’s about it.”
    â€œDo you carry a gun?” she asked, as the taxi driver moved in and out of traffic lanes to little effect. That is often among the first questions asked me.
    â€œI have a license to carry a gun. In New York State, it is not easy to get such a license, but properly accredited private investigators are allowed to have one.”
    â€œWhat about all those other people with guns— are they illegal?”
    â€œMost of them are, particularly in the inner cities. But individuals can get a license for a gun for what is called target practice. Most of them live in rural areas, and are into a gun culture. All this, of course, applies only to concealed weapons, not to shotguns or rifles, which private eyes rarely mess with.”
    She smiled, and looked her question.
    â€œNo,” I said, “I don’t have it with me. I keep it locked up; I carry it only on dangerous assignments.” I hoped the phrase didn’t sound too phony in her ears, but like most honest citizens she found the life of a detective intriguing, and full of perilous encounters.
    We reached the restaurant, and were greeted by the maître d’ and seated with an adequate flourish. As it happened, I knew him, since I had had to watch one of his customers during a long evening, and occupy a table in the proper line of vision. I had of course paid handsomely for his help, and had since come a few times to dine there in a quite proper way. One thing you soon learn as a private investigator—though I didn’t bother telling this to Dawn—is that the more people you can win to your side, usually through the expression of gratitude in the form of money, the better; they form a network of individuals essential to any detective.
    I urged Dawn to order a cocktail, while I had vodka on the rocks. She said she didn’t drink much, but would try a sherry. I doubted that this restaurant had sweet sherry, and didn’t want to embarrass her into having to make a choice, so I ordered medium sherry for her. She sipped it slowly, whether from the desire to make it last or from distaste I couldn’t tell, but she seemed happy.
    â€œHow did you get the name Dawn?” I asked. “It’s a lovely name.”
    â€œThank you,” she said. It was clearly a compliment she was used to. “My parents waited a long time for a child; when I arrived they said that for them it was a new dawn.”
    â€œIsn’t it great to be a welcome child?”
    â€œThey might have named me Benvenuta. One of the professors told me that. Benvenuto Cellini’s father held him up when he was born and called out, ‘Welcome.’ In Italian, of course; that’s what
benvenuto
means. I wasn’t welcome once I had left home.”
    I wanted her compliant; I wanted all she could tell me, for sooner or later, and probably sooner, it would lead to the department where she had worked for ten years. I looked at her, waiting for more if she wanted to offer it then, but she didn’t, and I didn’t ask. It doesn’t pay to waste the limited number of questions you can decently ask on an intrusive one that is also irrelevant. I urged her to have another glass of sherry, and she said she would if I had another drink too, so we did. Then we ordered. To my surprise—because she had been so diffident over the drink—she knew exactly what she wanted and requested it. I reminded myself that she was the highly efficient coordinator of a complicated department, and more interested in food than drink.
    â€œHow did you find an investigator to work for?” she asked me. “Did you know one?”
    â€œI did. I used to be a public defender; there were a number of private investigators who worked with the lawyers, and one of them agreed to hire me.”
    â€œYou were lucky.” She looked into her glass, swirling the sherry around