THERE'S A MAN SLEEPING in the corner of your office," the boy said.

"I know."

"He's Chinese," the kid said. "You want to know how I know?"

"He looks Chinese," I said.

"But he could be Japanese or Korean," the kid said, looking at Victor Woo, who was lying faceup on his bedroll with his eyes closed.

"He's not."

"Pale skin, small eyes, and his ..."

The boy was seventeen, a student at Pine View School for the Gifted. His name was Greg Legerman. He was short, nervous and unable to sit still or be quiet. Next to him sat a tall, thin boy with tousled white hair and rimless glasses. Winston Churchill Graeme, also seventeen, was tall, calm, and sat still, looking at whomever was talking.

"Am I right? Winn, am I right?" Greg said to his friend with a laugh as he punched the other boy in the arm, punched him hard.

Winn Graeme didn't answer. Greg didn't care.

"You're moving," Greg said.

"How could you tell?" I asked.

"The six cardboard boxes over there near the Chinese man."

"I'm moving," I said.

It had taken me less than an hour to pack. I lived in the adjacent room, a small office space, and I owned almost nothing. We were sitting in the reception room, which had a desk, three chairs, and four small paintings on the wall. That was it. My friend Ames McKinney would be by later to pick up the desk, the boxes, the TV with the built-in video player, and the knee-high bookcase.

"They're tearing this building down," said Greg. He grinned.

He was easily amused. He punched Winn Graeme in the arm again.

"Why do you keep punching him?" I asked.

"We're kidding. He punches me sometimes."

Winn gave a halfhearted tap to the arm of Greg Legerman.

"Am I right? They're tearing the building down?"

"Yes."

"You have another place for your office?" asked Greg.

"Yes."

"The Dairy Queen used to be right out there," said Greg.

"Yes," I said.

"They should tear down banks and put up DQs," Greg said.

I agreed but didn't say so. He didn't seem to need anyone agreeing with him about anything.

Victor Woo stirred in the corner and rolled toward the wall.

"Mind my asking who that is?" asked Greg.

"Victor Woo."

"And what's he doing sleeping on the floor of your office?"

"He walked in one afternoon," I said.

"Why?"

"He killed my wife in Chicago. He feels guilty and depressed."

"You're kidding, right?" asked Greg.

"No," I said.

"Wow," said Greg.

I called out, "Don't punch him."

Greg hesitated, shrugged and let his hands fall into his lap for a few seconds before they started to roam again.

"Let's go," Winn said, starting to rise.

Winston Graeme had the remnants of a Russell Crowe accent.

"No wait," said Greg. "I like this guy. I like you, Mr. Fonesca. You come highly recommended."

"By who and for what?"

"By a Pine View student."

"Who is nameless?"

"No, the student has a name," he said with a laugh.

I couldn't open my mouth fast enough to stop him from punching his friend.

"I'm a process server," I said.

"You find people. You help people."

I didn't respond. He hadn't really asked a question. I make enough money to live by serving papers for lawyers. I didn't want more work. I didn't want money in the bank. I wanted to be able to pick up my duffle bag, which was always partially packed, add a few things, and walk out the door.

"We can pay," said Greg. "What's your fee?"

Victor got up on his elbows and looked over at us. He was wearing a red sweatshirt that had a Chicago Bulls logo and the word "Bulls" on the front. The sleeves on the sweatshirt had been roughly cut off.

Something in my face told the two boys that I wasn't interested.

"You can listen," said Greg, starting to rise, changing his mind and sitting again. "Ten minutes."

"Five minutes. What's your problem?" I asked.

"Ronnie Gerall is in jail, juvenile. He's seventeen. They say he murdered a crazy old man. He didn't. The police aren't even looking for anyone else."

Winn Graeme adjusted his glasses again and glanced at Victor.

"Okay," said Greg. "We want you to find someone — the person who killed Philip Horvecki."

I had read about the murder of Philip Horvecki in the Herald-Tribune a few days before. He had been beaten to death in his home. Horvecki was one of the Sarasota super rich. Semi retired, he had earned his money in land development when the market was hot. He was involved in local politics and had run without success for everything from property appraiser and tax collector to city council, and his causes were many.

His latest cause was something called Bright Futures, a program to provide financial aid to high school students going to a Florida college or university. Horvecki wanted the program abolished. He didn't want to pay for people's college education. The argument that the program was paid for by the Florida lottery made no difference to Horvecki.

His second most recent and continuing cause involved Pine View School for the Gifted, a public school for high-IQ and high-achievement students who could test their way in. Pine View was consistently ranked in the top ten high schools in the United States. That didn't matter to Horvecki, who thought taxpayers shouldn't have to pay for elitist education. He wanted to turn Pine View into an open-admissions high school like the others in the county. For this position he had a lot of support.

All of this was in the article I had read. I remembered having the feeling that more was going on.

"Ronnie didn't do it," said Greg, looking around the room as if he had lost something or someone.

"He was found over the body covered in blood," I said.

"Circumstantial," said Greg.

"He was there to fight with Horvecki about his Pine View and Bright Futures positions," I said.

"Ronnie's got a temper I admit," said Greg. "But he's not a killer."

I looked at Winn whose accent was more pronounced now as he said, "Ronnie's not a killer."

"Winn's from Australia," Greg said with something that sounded like pride at having an exotic trophy at his side.

"He was Australian thirteen-and-under golf champ before he moved here with his mom two years ago. Winn's a state runner-up in golf. Winn's also on the soccer and basketball teams at Sarasota High. Pine View doesn't have sports teams. Tell him."

I wasn't sure how Winn Graeme's athletic achievements qualified him to determine that Ronnie Gerall was not a killer.

"We have a rowing team," Winn said. "And cross-country."

Greg started to laugh again. He held up his fist and was stopped by the hoarse morning voice of Victor Woo saying, "Do not punch him again."

"Victor doesn't like violence," I said.

"How did he kill your wife?" asked Greg.

"Hit-and-run," I said.

"Tapping each other's just a joke with my friend," said Greg to Victor. "It's a joke. Don't be lame."

Victor was on his knees now, palms on his thighs. He was wearing purple Northwestern University sweatpants. They didn't come close to being compatible with his Bulls shirt.

"Nonviolent hit-and-run Buddhist, right?" asked Greg. "Do you know there are an estimated seven million Buddhists in China?"

Victor was on his bare feet now, touching his face to find out if he could go...