“Who remembers… probably something like ‘Stop, you asshole!’” Moskow plinked the hem of his sweatshirt with a thumbnail. “Mrs. Mancusi’s lying there, covered in blood, and this bastard is sauntering away like nothing happened. I started after him, which in retrospect was idiotic. But you don’t think. Then I saw the knife and stopped in my tracks.”

Moisture collected at the bottom of his eyes.

“How’d you see the knife?”

“He wiped it on the front of his pants. Above the knee. Casually, like it was a natural thing to do.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then he pocketed it and got into his car and drove off. The whole thing took seconds.”

“The car was idling.”

“I don’t remember him starting it up, so probably. Don’t remember any engine noise at all but maybe I was blocking it out. That particular model’s pretty quiet.”

“Which way did he drive?”

He pointed south. “Right past my house.”

I knew the neighborhood from my grad student days at the U., had roamed these same streets searching for shortcuts home to my dismal little single on Overland. “It’s a bit of a maze. All those dead ends.”

Moskow stiffened. “You’re thinking he’s from around here?”

“No, but he may have planned his escape route.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood. Same for the car. This isn’t exactly S600 territory.”

“Not a lot of Benzes?”

“Plenty of Benzes, but not 600s.”

“You’re into cars.”

“I’ve owned a few junkers that I fixed up.” He managed a half smile. “Owned a DeLorean. That was an experience. So what are we talking about, some old Mafioso?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Big black car, execution-style killing, guy that age. What came to mind is maybe he’s an old goombah hit man who didn’t burn out.”

He pulled the thread loose, rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. “That stupid cap.”

“Would there be any reason for Mrs. Mancusi to be involved with an old Mafioso?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. Then again, who’d imagine this?”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not well at all. She was quiet, seemed nice enough. We’d say hi, good-bye, that’s about it.”

“Any social life?”

“Just that guy I told the lieutenant about.”

“How often was he here?”

“Maybe every month, that why I assumed he was her son. Could’ve been more often, it’s not like I kept my eyes fixed on her house.”

“Anything more you can say about him?”

“Forties, blond, sloppy-looking. Now that I think about it, I never actually saw them together. He’d knock on the door and she’d let him in. When he left, she never walked him out.”

“Was walking hard for her?”

“On the contrary, hale and healthy.”

“Anything else you can tell me about the blond guy?”