I drove home and changed quickly into the navy suit I’d worn to Boom Boom’s funeral. I made good time going back south—it was only four-thirty when I got to the funeral home. A tan brick bungalow at 71st and Damen with a tiny lawn manicured within an inch of the ground had been converted to a funeral parlor. A vacant lot on its south side was packed with cars. I found a place for the Lynx on 71st Place and went into the home. I was the only white person there.

Kelvin’s body was displayed in an open casket surrounded with waxy lilies and candles. I made the obligatory stop to look. He was laid out in his best suit; his face in repose had the same unresponsive stare I’d encountered Tuesday night.

I turned to condole with the family. Mrs. Kelvin was standing in quiet dignity, wearing a black wool dress and surrounded by her children. I shook hands with a woman my own age in a black suit and pearls, two younger men, and with Mrs. Kelvin.

“Thank you for coming down, Miss Warshawski,” the widow said in her deep voice. “These are my children and my grandchildren.” She gave me their names and I told them how sorry I was.

The little room was crowded with friends and relations, heavy-bosomed women clutching handkerchiefs, dark-suited men, and preternaturally quiet children. They moved a little closer to the grieving family as I stood there—protection against the white woman who drove Kelvin to his death.

“I was a little hasty in how I spoke to you yesterday,” Mrs. Kelvin said. “I believed you must have known something was going to happen in that apartment.”

There was a little murmur of assent from the group behind me.

“I still think you must have known something was going on. But blaming people won’t bring my husband back to life.” She gave the ghost of a smile. “He was a very stubborn man. He could have called for help if he knew someone was going into that place—he should have called for help, called the police.” Again the murmur of assent from the people around her. “But once he knew someone was breaking in, he wanted to handle it by himself. And that’s not your fault.”

“Do the police have any leads?” I asked.

The young woman in the black suit gave a bitter smile. Daughter or daughter-in-law—I couldn’t remember. “They aren’t going to do anything. They have the pictures, the film from the TV consoles Daddy watched, but the killers had their faces and hands covered. So the police say if no one can recognize them there’s nothing they can do.”