“Yeah, I guess,” I said unenthusiastically. “They had black slickers on, the kind with hoods that cover a lot of the face. I’m not sure I’d ever recognize them again.”

“Great.” Bobby ignored my lack of ardor. “I’ll have a uniformed man pick you up in half an hour—unless that’s too early for you.”

“Like Justice, I never sleep,” I said politely, and hung up.

Murray phoned next. They’d put the morning edition to bed before word of an arrest outside my place had come in from one of his police snitches. His boss, knowing of our relationship, had woken him with the news. Murray pumped away with tireless energy for several minutes. Finally I cut him off crossly:

“I’m going down to look at a lineup. If either Art Jurshak or Dr. Chigwell’s sister is there, I’ll give you a call back. Which reminds me—the good doctor has gone off with the kind of guys who like to break into other people’s houses.”

I hung up on his squawk. The phone rang again as I was stomping into the bedroom to get dressed. I chose to ignore it—let Murray get his news from public radio or something. As I was brushing my hair with surly ill will, Mr. Contreras brought breakfast to the door. My last night’s desire for his companionship had worn off. I drank a cup of coffee ungraciously and told him I didn’t have time to eat. When he started fussing over me I lost my temper and snapped at him.

A hurt look came into his faded brown eyes. He collected the dog with quiet dignity and left. I immediately felt ashamed of myself and ran after him. He’d already reached the lobby, though, and I didn’t have my keys with me. I headed back up the stairs.

While I was gathering my keys and my handbag, sticking the Smith & Wesson into my jeans, the uniformed man arrived to take me down to the lineup. I carefully locked the dead bolt behind me—some days I don’t bother with it—and ran down the stairs. Soonest started, soonest ended, or whatever it was Lady Macbeth said.

The uniformed man turned out to be a woman, Patrol Officer Mary Louise Neely. She was quiet and serious, holding herself ramrod straight in her fiercely pressed navy serge, calling me “ma’am” in a way that made me acutely aware of the twelve or more years between us. She opened the door for me with military crispness and ushered me down the walk to the waiting patrol car.

Mr. Contreras was out in front with Peppy. I wanted to make some gesture of reconciliation, but Officer Neely’s stern presence robbed me of any words. I held out a hand, but he nodded stiffly to me, calling the dog sharply as she headed down the walk behind me.

I tried asking the patrolwoman insightful questions about her work and whether the Cubs or the Sox could worsen their abysmal performance of last season. She snubbed me completely, though, keeping her stern gaze on malefactors on Lake Shore Drive, murmuring periodically into her lapel transmitter.