In style and size, the two boys were a study in contrast. Greg was short, compact, and slightly plump; Winn tall, lean, and muscular.

Earlier that morning, I had bicycled over, shaved, and washed at the Downtown YMCA on Main Street. I had brushed my teeth, too, and looked at my sad, clearly Italian face.

“How old is Horvecki’s daughter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg said, looking at his friend for the answer, but Winn didn’t know either.

“What’s her name?”

“Rachel,” said Winn.

“You have a car?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Greg.

“You know where Sarasota News and Books is?”

“Yes.”

“We drive over there, you get me two coffees and two biscotti to go, and I listen to your story.”

“Fair enough,” said Greg. “What about Victor?”

“He knows I’ll be back. I need to know who told you about me. I don’t have a private investigator’s license.”

“Viviase,” said Winn.

“Ettiene Viviase, the policeman?”

“No,” said Greg. “Elisabeth Viviase, the freshman daughter of the policeman.”

Sarasota News and Books wasn’t crowded, but there were people dawdling over coffee at four of the six tables on the coffee house side of the shop. A few others roamed the shelves of firmly packed rows of books and circled around the tables piled with new arrivals.

We sat at a table near the window facing Main Street. The television mounted in the corner silently played one of the business channels. I wasn’t tempted to watch.

“I’ve got to tell you,” said Greg. “I am not filled with confidence about you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, no offense, but you’re a little bald guy in jeans and a frayed short-sleeved yellow shirt. You’ve got a baseball cap on your head and you look like someone just shot your faithful dog.”