Three hours and more than half of a bottle of Zinfandel later, Eames remembered the papers in her purse midway through Alvarez's story about the man with the inflatable doll, and thought Whoops! She glanced out through the bar's window at the evening scene outside, and saw with relief that Hoffman's windows were still lit. She knew he kept odd hours since his retirement, having once cheerfully announced to herself and Bobby that one of the many joys of retirement was never having to worry about what time it was: "I do what I like, when I like, and if that's drinking whisky whilst staying up with Marta to watch the complete works of Hitchcock until three in the morning, so be it!"

She smiled affectionately at the memory. Hoffman liked to play the eccentric academic (she'd wondered more than once if he was a vision of what Bobby might turn into twenty years down the line), but his brain was still as sharp as ever, and he was plainly devoted to his wife, Marta, whom he'd met in England before they emigrated to the States. She waited for Alvarez to finish her story; she'd seen her friend yawn a few times, and guessed that they were on course for Rosie to suddenly remember that she had a family waiting back home, and depart in time to say goodnight to the kids and spend a few hours with her long-suffering husband.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside the elevator to Hoffman's apartment, quietly debating whether or not to interrupt his evening, when the door suddenly opened and Hoffman himself stepped out, clad in what were obviously his lounging-around-inside-on-a-weekend-evening clothes; old chinos and a sports jersey that had probably been a present from his grandchildren. "My dear Detective Eames! Do come up, what a pleasant surprise."

She was a little surprised at this, but as she followed him into his apartment, she noticed that the window overlooked the bar she and Alvarez had been drinking in, and that the chair near it showed signs of recent occupancy; a whisky glass and paperback novel. She'd asked after his wife on the journey up; Marta was well, and visiting friends in Boston. She had the impression, from the empty takeout containers glimpsed in the kitchen and the general air of bachelorhood in the apartment, that Hoffman was rather enjoying a few days on his own.

"Would you like a drink?" Hoffman asked, indicating the bottle he'd been drinking from. She recognised it as an expensive blend; Hoffman's book royalties earned him and his wife a comfortable retirement. She shook her head, and smiled a polite refusal. "I have some very nice fruit juice in the fridge – do you have a preference?" They settled on orange and cranberry for her, and a little more whisky for him, and Hoffman pulled up a chair by the window. "Now, my dear, what brings you to my apartment door on a Friday evening? A social visit, or is there a professional motive behind it?"

"Well… both. It's good to see you again." She wasn't exaggerating. The first time she'd met him in Bobby's company, she'd been struck by how much more relaxed her partner seemed around Hoffman, getting the impression that he was one of the few people Bobby felt comfortable being himself around. She, too, had warmed to the man's combination of good humour, eccentricity and sharp mind. Given Hoffman's age and half-Jewish family history, he had undoubtedly had some extremely bad experiences in his life, quite apart from his career as a pathologist, but she'd read some of his books and been struck by the compassion and determination behind the careful scientific phrasing. It was good to be reminded that a career in law enforcement didn't have to land one with an irredeemably cynical view of human nature.

"And how is your partner, Robert?"

"Very well… well, actually…" and she found herself describing Bobby's weird behaviour recently. Hoffman raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment. "But also, I need these translating." She handed him the copies, and explained the situation. He scanned the first pages briefly, and raised his eyebrows. "Hmm… this is interesting."

"What is?" she felt compelled to ask.

"I recognise your partner's handwriting and phrasing here, but the other correspondent is female. This is a conversation in writing, my dear; one sentence on this page is followed by a reply on the other, and so it continues down the page."

Oh? That was interesting. She suddenly wondered if these papers really were related to Morelli's 'Piano Man' case. But Bobby had said they needed translating… perhaps Morelli had asked him to interview someone he'd asked in for an opinion? Why would they be writing that down? she mused, then suddenly found herself stifling a yawn as a long week and several glasses of Zinfandel combined to make her realise how tired she was. Hoffman smiled amusedly, but politely made no comment.

"So, my dear, you would like these translating. I can do that for you over the weekend." He waved a hand to cut off her objection that it wasn't that urgent. "Remember, I'm retired. My weekends can be whenever I want them to be; Monday to Thursday, if I so choose. I will be quite happy to do this, if for no other reason than it means I will have a good excuse for Marta when she gets back as to why I haven't gotten round to clearing up and doing the laundry yet." He smiled again. "In return, may I ask you a favour with regard to my payment?"

She was about to say The usual rates, of course, but let him continue. "I don't particularly require money at present, but do you think that you could do me a small favour?"

"Of course."

"Marta happens to be particularly fond of a type of cake – German raspberry tart, I'll give you a full description later – which our local bakery used to sell to us every week. Unfortunately, that bakery has now become a Subway. She looks so disappointed every Saturday morning, it used to be a little ritual of ours, to go down there and eat it with a cup of coffee and read the newspapers, just like we used to in Cambridge, whilst we were courting… do you think you could find some nice keen young officers who might be willing to go forth and hunt out a replacement?"

"You want me to find you a cake?" An unusual request, but hardly beyond the resources of Major Case. She had no doubt Alvarez knew a few rookie cops who'd be willing to help out in the hope of earning some brownie points (as it were), and hunting cake would probably be a nice change for them from hunting perps. "Not a problem."

"Very well, my dear, I shall have the translation ready for you very shortly. Now, allow me to call you a taxi and find a description of the cake in question."