“At least that’s the first time I noticed it. It gave me a handle on the poem, as a matter of fact. The contrast of the blue of her eyes and the green of the ring, but then I lost the blue when I got working on the poem.”

She’d told me something along those lines when she first showed me the poem. I hadn’t known then what she was talking about.

She wasn’t sure when that might have been. How long had she been working on one or another version of the poem? Since a month before Kim’s murder? Two months?

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have trouble placing events in time. I don’t tend to keep track.”

“But it was a ring with a green stone.”

“Oh, yes. I can picture it now.”

“Do you know where she got it? Who gave it to her?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “Maybe—”

“Yes?”

“Maybe she shattered a wine bottle.”

To Durkin I said, “A friend of Kim’s wrote a poem and mentioned the ring. And there’s Sunny Hendryx’s suicide note.” I got out my notebook, flipped it open. I read, “ ‘There’s no way off the merry-go-round. She grabbed the brass ring and it turned her finger green. Nobody’s going to buy me emeralds.’ “

He took the book from me. “She meaning Dakkinen, I suppose,” he said. “There’s more here. ‘Nobody’s going to give me babies. Nobody’s going to save my life.’ Dakkinen wasn’t pregnant and neither was Hendryx, so what’s this shit about babies? And neither one of them had her life saved.” He closed the book with a snap, handed it across the desk to me. “I don’t know where you can go with this,” he said. “It doesn’t look to me like something you can take to the bank. Who knows when Hendryx wrote this? Maybe after the booze and the pills started working, and who can say where she was coming from?”

Behind us, two men in plainclothes were putting a young white kid in the holding cage. A desk away, a sullen black woman was answering questions. I picked up the top photo on the stack and looked at Kim Dakkinen’s butchered body. Durkin switched on the razor and finished shaving.