I trudged up Eureka Street beneath leafless trees in a heavy mist to Bill Ryan’s house and found myself standing before a beautifully restored Edwardian duplex. The body of the building was a warm, buttery yellow, the fretwork and Juliet balcony a creamy white. Elsewhere were touches of deep green while the capitals of the columns flanking the porch, the oak and acorn frieze, and the sunburst above the second-floor bay windows were gold-leafed. The house glistened in the damp and darkness of the morning as snug as a little ark ploughing briskly through rough waters. The Castro was filled with old houses like this, brought out of disrepair by the gay men who had settled the neighborhood in the previous decade. But I had never seen one so self-contained or that spoke so yearningly of refuge.

The doors were four-paneled and painted forest green, inset with a square, leaded glass window. A curtain was drawn over the door to my left. Above the door on the right was an address that matched the one on Ryan’s insurance application. I peered through the uncurtained window at a carpeted stairway that disappeared into darkness. I could feel the emptiness but I rang the bell anyway and, when that failed to get a response, pounded on the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the curtain on the left door flicker. I knocked again. The other door opened a crack and a shadow in the doorway said in an old woman’s irritated croak, “Nobody’s home.”

She didn’t slam the door shut, so I said, “I’m looking for Nick Trejo.”

“You won’t find him here,” she replied, but her tone was less annoyed than curious, so I went on.

“I work for an insurance company. Nick’s friend, Bill Ryan, took out a life insurance policy and made Nick the beneficiary. The company won’t pay out on the policy until I find him.”

The door opened wide to reveal a small woman in a flowery housecoat, silver hair carefully arranged around a pink face whose features had dissolved into a puddle of sags and wrinkles. She looked me up and down with sharp blue eyes.

“You say Nick has money coming to him?”

“If I can find him, Missus…” I said politely.

“Donohue,” she allowed.

“My name is Henry. Henry Rios.”

Curiosity warred with suspicion in those bright, shrewd eyes. Curiosity won. “You better come in out of the damp, Mister Henry Rios.”