“Mrs. Appel? Lieutenant Sturgis… I’m… yes, I know it was traumatic, ma’am, so sorry it was your… no, there’ll be no need to do any further digging, that’s not what I’m… absolutely, Mrs. Appel, and we do appreciate it, but I need to ask you one more question.”

He hung up, rubbing his face. “Doesn’t know anyone named Bright, Dale, Ansell, or otherwise. Would never know anyone capable of something so terrible, same goes for Sis because they have exactly the same social group.”

“Close-knit,” I said.

“They share real estate and haven’t sued each other. Might as well be conjoined. Let me try Bruno, anyway… nope, voice mail, no sense leaving a message, Appel’s bound to get to her first. Thanks for breakfast, I’m off to buy my Red Bull and sustenance, get ready for the wonders of Rodney Drive.”

“You paid for breakfast.”

“I was talking mental stimulation.”

“Want company?”

“Robin’s still busy on her project?”

“We’re catching dinner at seven, then she’s back to work.”

“So play with the dog — thanks for the offer, Alex, but doing that forty-eight-hour N.Y. turnaround is already beyond the call. Plus hanging with me when I’m brain-dead is not amusing. And don’t say you’ve already been there.”

Dinner was lamb chops, salad, beer. By nine p.m. Robin was back to carving and I was stretched on the sofa in my office reading the paper. Blanche curled next to me pretending to be interested in current affairs. At ten thirty I snapped awake, feeling itchy and too large for my skin. Blanche snored with gusto. I put her to bed, walked out back to the studio.

Robin sat at her bench, tapping and carving. “Oh, no. Poor you.”

“What?”

“You fell asleep and now you’re wired.”

“It’s that obvious?”

She put her chisel down, touched my face. “The leather couch. You’ve got marks from the seams.”

“Sherlocka,” I said.

“Want me to go with you?”

“Where?”

“One of your drives.”

“I wasn’t planning on driving anywhere.”

“No?” she said. “Okay, I’ll stop and we can play Scrabble.”

The fiddle-grain maple back of the dot-com guy’s mandolin sat on the spotless bench. Neat pile of shavings on the floor. “I do not obstruct genius.”

“Hardly,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“Maybe I’ll join Milo. He’s watching Tony Mancusi, may haul him in for questioning.”

She smiled. “Now I know it’s really you and not some alien clone. Give me a kiss and be off.”

I phoned from the road.

He said, “Your myelin will wither.”

“Probably have too much anyway.”

“Mr. Mature.”

“Not by choice.”

He’d borrowed a dented brown Camaro from the police lot, was parked ten yards cars north of Tony Mancusi’s building, positioned so streetlight glanced the rear of the car, avoided the driver’s seat.