“I can,” Keegan said. “Three hundred.”

Lusk shrugged. “Three hundred ought to float it. The Model Ten is no exotic bird. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” Keegan said. “You’re a godsend.”

Lusk took down two more bundles from the truck and turned to Keegan, a bundle hanging from each hand. “None of my business, big shot,” Lusk said. His face showed the effort of carrying the papers, as did the strain in his voice. “But you’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? Despite the many pains you bring my ass, I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

“A little trouble,” Keegan admitted. “I think I can get clear of it. Shouldn’t be a big deal.”

Lusk pinched his lips together and nodded. He pushed past Keegan again and shuffled over to the newsstand carrying his papers. “No offense,” he said over his shoulder. “But you’re not really cut out to run with the criminal element in this town. If you’re planning on shooting some mysterious stranger in a limo, you’re going to end up on page two of the City section. HACK GETS WHACKED. No photo.” Lusk disappeared into his shack.

KEEGAN DIDN’T OPEN the copy of The Times until he was in the cottage with the kettle set to boil. Whatever the next hours held, he had to make a run at the day without any sleep whatsoever.

Ormsby’s photo was on the front page of the City section. CHARACTER ACTOR SLAIN. Art and copy. No leads. A likely break-in, the article said. Lieutenant Louis Moore heading the investigation. The splashy lead was followed up on page five after the jump. One of the photos there showed a much younger Ormsby dressed as a cowboy, standing next to Jimmy Stewart. Another, more recent, showed him sitting in some restaurant with a woman who looked to be a decade or two his junior; she was pleasant-looking, but unremarkable; a cigarette dangled from between two of her fingers. It took him a few seconds to make the connection: it was Ormsby’s widow as she’d looked a decade ago.

Lower in the column was a photo of Ormsby’s house, and a small oval picture of Eve. Her hair was longer in the photo, and she was smiling awkwardly, head tilted—probably a yearbook shot from whatever elite girls’ school had taught her to open wine bottles in a pinch. It wasn’t a large photo, and it wasn’t recent, but it looked like her. If Simon Catling hadn’t found her yet, he’d know where she was before he sat down to lunch.

KEEGAN SPENT THE day in and out of the office, running from Bullock’s to the Thrifty to the Robinson’s on West 7th, cashing small checks that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or leave much of a paper trail.