I took out a picture of Lionel Byrd I had clipped from the paper and showed it to the woman.

Could you tell me if you recognize this man? His name was Lionel Byrd. He was a regular customer here.

She blinked at the picture with wide, curious eyes.

Are you a policeman?

Nope. Elvis Cole. I'm a private investigator.

She smiled, the smile making her even prettier.

Is that really your name?

What, Cole?

No, silly, Elvis. I'm Cass, like Mama Cass Elliot. She used to live right up the hill. A dude comes here, his name is Jagger, and a dude named Morris who says he was named after Jim Morrison, but that's kinda sketchy.

The sixties live.

Cass called over her shoulder.

Phil, can you come see this, please?

Phil put down the bowl of tuna and came up behind her, wiping his hands on a towel. Cass showed him the picture.

Was this guy a customer?

Phil considered the image.

He's the one they found in the fire. You didn't see the news?

Cass didn't know what we were talking about.

Phil said, Yeah, he used to get the curry chicken. It was always the same. The curry chicken on a sesame roll. He had a bad foot.

Phil was a score. They might have shot the bull while Phil made Byrd's sandwich, and Phil might remember something useful.

That's right. He was here about two weeks ago, just before he died. Do you remember what you talked about?

Phil handed back the picture, shaking his head.

Sorry, bro. He hasn't been in for a couple of months, something like that. It's been a while.

He was here exactly fifteen days ago, and two days before that. I found these at his house.

I showed him the two most recent receipts. Phil squinted at them as if they were an incomprehensible mystery, then shook his head.

I don't know what to tell you. We get busy, I wouldn't have seen him if he didn't buy a sandwich.

The tingle faded, but Cass brightened and spoke up.

We might have delivered. Let's see if Charles remembers.

Phil was still squinting at the receipts.

There's no delivery charge, see? We didn't deliver. There would be a charge if we delivered.

Cass said, Oh, don't be a gob.

She went to the end of the counter and shouted for someone named Charles. A stock clerk in a green apron ambled out from between the aisles. It wasn't just me.

Phil took the picture, and showed him.

You deliver for this guy? The name was Byrd.

Phil glanced at me again.

Where'd he live?

Anson Lane. Off Lookout, up past the school.

Charles took his turn with the picture, then shook his finger as if the finger was helping him fish up the thought.

The dude with the foot.

That's the one.

Yeah, man, I saw it in the paper. That stuff was crazy.

You delivered groceries to him two weeks ago?