The morgue. Washed-out skin. Empty eyes. Blue lips. Then he remembered: the memo and the composition books.

“Did you find her handbag?”

“Not that I know of.”

“She had some composition books in her bag.”

“I’ll look at the report again. But nothing was recovered … . What’s in the books?”

“I’m not sure. Some writings. Her family might like to have them, if they’re not ruined … . And I had a manila folder. Some odds and ends. Financial records. Nothing important.”

“No.”

All gone. No surprise there.

“But we’re going to empty the lock in the morning,” the detective said, “and do a daylight search.”

McGreer returned, and a policewoman guided Addis and McGreer to the side entrance. McGreer had parked his car near the door. There were no reporters. They got into the Volvo station wagon.

“That was Kelly on the phone,” McGreer said. “First thing, he said: ‘Does this fuck us at all?’ I told him, I didn’t know. And that you were fucking telling some fucking story. He said: ‘Seven-thirty-in-the-morning meeting.’ Didn’t even ask how you were. You know what he fucking said next?”

Addis shook his head.

“‘Christ, he really screwed Margaret royally.’ He sounded happy.”

McGreer’s pager went off, and he looked at the number. “Dan Carey,” he said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. He tossed it on Addis’s lap and started the car.

“I’ve got fucking nothing to say to him,” McGreer said. “Call you folks … First, watch this.”

McGreer drove out of the parking lot. The television lights illuminated the car. Police officers scurried to keep the camera crews and reporters out of the path of the Volvo. Shit, Addis thought, we’re going to have a parade. As McGreer steered the station wagon on to Idaho Avenue, four squad cars, their lights flashing, moved to block the road behind the Volvo. The journalists could not follow. Addis heard horns blaring.

“I did ask the mayor for one favor,” McGreer said. He looked in the rearview mirror. “The fuckers did a good job.”

Addis dialed his parents. They had been called by several friends. They had been watching the news. He assured them he was fine, that he did not have to see a doctor. The woman? She was a new friend. No, he didn’t quite understand why it had happened. Maybe the guy was just a loon.

“Even a loon,” his father said, “has his reasons.”

Addis promised to call them in the morning and hung up. Neither he nor McGreer said much during the ride to Falls Church. When they were getting off the Beltway, McGreer asked Addis if he was warm enough. Addis nodded. He felt the hot, humid air against his face—McGreer had not turned on the air conditioner—and a chill inside him.

“Nick, who are you going to tell the truth to?” McGreer asked.

Fuck if I know.