“I hear your Rolodex is in grave danger,” I say by way of greeting. Doc Coblentz is wearing his usual white lab coat over blue scrubs. Tie-dyed graphic Crocs stick out from beneath his desk. He looks past me as if expecting the threat to be standing there in all of her pin-striped glory. “She’s been after it for a year now. I’ve got twenty years of contacts in that thing.”
