Although the afternoon sun glinted off the glass, so he couldn’t actually see her, he sensed Bridget watching him from her front window as he crossed the street instead of getting into the rental car he’d parked at the curb in front of her house.

It took a moment for him to rouse someone, but eventually an obese man, using a cane, answered his knock.

Amarok identified himself as a police officer and took out the photo he’d brought with him. “Do you recognize this man?”

The gentleman scratched his thick beard growth as he considered the image. “Don’t think so. I mean … he looks vaguely familiar, but the picture is so blurry…”

“I believe he was a friend of Terry Lovett’s. Could that be where you’ve seen him? At your neighbor’s house?”

“Naw. It’s difficult for me to get out.” He indicated his feet, which were so swollen it was a miracle he could still walk. “I pretty much keep to myself.”

“You live alone, then?”

“It’s just me and my mom.”

“Where’s your mom? Is there any chance I could speak with her?”

“Not right now. She’s still at work.”

Amarok made a note of their address. “When will she be home?”

“You’re coming back?” He sounded surprised.

“If you don’t mind…” Amarok planned to return regardless, but he was trying to be polite.

The skin hanging under the man’s chin wagged as he shook his head. “No, of course not. I don’t think she’ll be able to help you, though. It’s not like we have block parties in this crummy neighborhood. There was another officer going through here, so we heard that the neighbor’s husband was murdered. Saw it on the news, too. And we feel bad about it. But we don’t know her very well.”

“Still, I’d like your mother to take a look at this photo. It’s my job to be thorough.”

“Okay,” he said in a suit yourself voice.

After he left, Amarok went up the entire street, knocking on each and every door. Not everyone was home, but he made notes to indicate which houses required a second visit. By the time he’d made it back down to Bridget’s, she was standing in her yard, glaring at him with her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing?” she snapped as he continued past.

“I told you. My fiancée has been kidnapped. I don’t know if she’s still alive, but even if she isn’t I’m going to track down whoever took her, and this man”—he lifted the photo he’d tried to show her before—“could be him. I’m guessing he was involved with your late husband in some way. So until I find what I’m looking for, I’ll talk to everyone you know.”

“That’s harassment! My husband just died. Why are you trying to make my life more difficult?”

Her husband had been murdered. He hadn’t “just died,” and yet her statement was passive, almost innocuous, as if no one were to blame. Inserting that kind of emotional distance was something he’d always associated with deception. Wouldn’t an innocent person say, My husband’s just been killed?