In the half-light from the windows I couldn’t make out his beautifully chiseled features. He sidled into a seat toward the back.

McGonnigal tapped me on the shoulder. “Who’s that alfalfa sprout?” he growled.

I smiled seraphically and put a finger to my lips—the organ had begun to play loudly, signaling the arrival of the minister. We went through “Abide with Me” at such a slow pace that I kept bracing myself for each succeeding chord.

The minister was a short, plump man whose remaining black hair was combed in two neat rows on either side of a wrinkled dome. He looked like the kind of TV preacher who makes your stomach turn, but as he spoke I realized I’d made the dread mistake of judging by appearances. He clearly had known Nancy well and spoke of her with eloquent forcefulness. I felt my throat tighten again and leaned back in the pew to inspect the ceiling beams. The wood had been painted in the blue and orange stencils popular in Victorian churches. By focusing on the intricate lacy patterns I was able to relax enough to join in the final hymn.

I kept glancing at young Art. He spent the service perched on the edge of his pew, gripping the back of the bench in front of him. When the last chords of “In Heavenly Love Abiding” had finally been wrenched painfully from the organ, he slid out of his seat and headed for the exit.

I caught up with him on the porch, where he was moving nervously from foot to foot, unable to free himself from a drunk panhandler. When I touched Art’s arm he jumped.

“I didn’t know you and Nancy were friends,” I said. “She never mentioned you to me.”

He mumbled something that sounded like “knew her slightly.”

“I’m V. I. Warshawski. Nancy and I played high school and college basketball together. I saw you at the Tenth Ward office last week. You’re Art Jurshak’s son, aren’t you?”

At that his chiseled-marble face turned even whiter; I was afraid he might faint. Even though he was a slender young man, I wasn’t sure I could break his fall.

The drunk, who’d been listening interestedly, sidled closer. “Your friend looks pretty sick, lady. How about fifty cents for coffee—cup for him, cup for me.”

I turned my back on him firmly and took Art’s elbow. “I’m a private detective and I’m trying to look into Nancy’s death. If you were friends with her, I’d like to talk to you. About her connections with your father’s office.”

He shook his head dumbly, his blue eyes dark with fear. After a long internal debate he seemed to be on the brink of forcing himself to speak. Unfortunately as he opened his mouth the other mourners began emerging from the church. As soon as people started passing us Art wrenched himself from my grip and bolted down the street.

I tried to follow, but tripped over the drunk. I cursed him roundly as I pulled myself back to my feet. He was reviling me in return, but broke off suddenly as McGonnigal appeared—years of living around the police gave him a sixth sense about them even in plainclothes.