Maybe a sensitive guy. Maybe he wouldn’t mind my waking him from a sickbed.

I rang again, was contemplating a third attempt when a woman came walking up Broadmoor trailing something tiny and brown. The animal tugged and leaped and strained a spaghetti-strap leash. The woman trotted to catch up.

I guessed Chihuahua and I was wrong; this was the smallest dachshund I’d ever seen, surging and charging, head-down, like a bratwurst on a mission.

The woman was brown-haired and freckled, wore a green top the same color as the Passat, skinny black pants, black shoes. Thirties, five five, with long legs and commodious hips.

The dog surged to the end of a long leash. Developed an instant lust for my left shoe.

The woman said, “Stop, Indy,” without much conviction, got her wrist yanked, fought to hold her ground.

I said, “Indy as in the big race?”

“His engine never turns off.” She scooped the dog into her arms, wrestled with the squirming bundle. When Indy finally calmed, the woman looked at Wilson Good’s house. Moss-green eyes. Soft color, hard appraisal.

She said, “Anything I can help you with?”

I brought out my LAPD consultant’s badge. Long expired and pretty dinky, but few people bother to check. The freckled woman remained too far back to read the details, though Indy was itching for a try.

“I’m looking for Mr. Good.”

“I’m Andrea. His wife.” As if she wasn’t sure. “What do you need with Will?”

“Fifteen years ago he had a friend named Antoine Beverly who—”

“Of course. Antoine.” Indy began making gremlin noises, renewed his battle against confinement. Andrea Good gave up and lowered him to the ground. “Will and Antoine were friends since preschool. What happened to Antoine is the saddest thing Will’s ever experienced. But he doesn’t know anything that would help the police.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“Of course I am. Have the police finally learned something?”

“The case has just been reopened. Could you ask your husband if he can spare me a few minutes?”

“The police send psychologists out on old cases?”

“On specific cases. If I—”

“I’m sure Will would love to help,” she said, “but it’s not a good time. He’s got a nasty flu and a couple of big games coming up. Leave me your number.”

“The detective on the case has already called—”

“Has he? I’ll have to check the machine. Will’s been pretty out of it. High fever, not like him at all, but there’s stuff going around the school.”

Choking protest from below caught our attention.

Indy reared on his hind legs, forelegs pumping air, eyes bulging.

Semi-suspended, with the leash pulling up on his throat. Andrea Good’s hand had drawn up on the cord.

She said, “Oh, no!” and relaxed her grip. Indy dropped down, panting. She kneeled. “I’m so sorry, baby.”