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the Button Box with more energy than any seventy-something-year-old
     guy should have. He plunked down the lunch bag on my desk. “I didn’t have anything
     else to do today.”
    I’d like to think I could take a friend’s word at face value. Call me suspicious.
     When Stan and I last talked, I clearly remembered him saying he was heading up to
     Evanston to see his new great-grandson that day.
    I cocked my head and gave him the kind of look I imagined he’d once used on the bad
     guys who’d had the misfortune to cross his path back when he was a Chicago homicide
     detective. Just so he knew he wasn’t pulling the wool over my eyes, I crossed my arms
     over my chest, too, and stepped back, my weight against one foot.
    “Uh-huh,” was all I said.
    So much for trying to make an impression; Stan barely spared me a look. Instead, he
     made a big show out of opening the deli bag, reaching inside, and pulling out a sandwich.
     “You want this in the back room?” he asked. “I know you don’t like to eat out here
     and take the chance that your buttons will get something spilled on them.”
    “I don’t like people who are shady, either,” I reminded him, though I shouldn’t have
     had to.
    Like the
shady
comment couldn’t possibly have been meant for him, he dropped the sandwich back where
     it came from, lifted the bag, and held it close to his chest,the picture of innocence. “What are you talking about, Josie?” he asked.
    Rather than screech my frustration, I led the way into the workroom and coiled up
     the charm string so that I could tuck it onto a nearby shelf. At the same time I pulled
     a second stool over to the table, I tossed a look over my shoulder at Stan. “I’m talking
     about you,” I said, patting the table to show him where to put the bag. “You didn’t
     just stop in, and don’t pretend you did. You talked to Nev, didn’t you? I mean, since
     I saw him last night.”
    His lips pursed, Stan looked up at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling. Original to the
     brownstone, which means late Victorian. It’s tin and is embossed with a beautiful
     small floral pattern and painted a bright white to make the most of the light in the
     windowless workroom.
    But to a man who’d seen it dozens of times, I was pretty certain it wasn’t interesting
     enough to warrant such a close inspection.
    “If you say ‘Nev who?’ I’m going to bonk you with this sandwich bag,” I growled.
    Stan grimaced and gave up on the ceiling, peeling out of his jacket. “Well, what do
     you expect the guy to do?” he asked. “First of all, he’s a cop so of course he’s going
     to be concerned. Second of all, the guy’s crazy about you. He cares what happens to
     you, and he worries about you, too. So you meet him for a drink last night and you
     tell him somebody tried to steal your purse and—”
    “And so he sent you over to babysit me?” I may have been annoyed, but I was also famished.
     I peeked in the bag, made the important decision between pastrami and corned beef,
     extracted the sandwich I wanted, and pushedthe bag toward Stan. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told Nev. It was random. And it
     was my fault. As soon as I set my purse down, that creep saw his opportunity. And
     when he realized he was up against the mighty LaSalle, he disappeared. What do they
     call that, Stan? A crime of opportunity? Well, that’s exactly what it would have been
     if not for the dog. Which means it’s not like the scumbag is going to waltz in here
     and stick up the place.” My laugh was anything but funny. “He’d be plenty surprised
     if he did. I’ve got thirty dollars in the cash drawer and another seventeen in my
     purse. That’s all he would have gotten last night if he’d made off with it. Seventeen
     dollars. Hardly seems worth it.”
    “Our perp didn’t know that.” While I was busy lecturing him (yeah, like that was going
     to get me anywhere), Stan had retrieved the corned beef sandwich. He