I pulled on jeans and a heavy sweatshirt, running shoes, got the dogs leashed up, and took them for a quick jog to a nearby park. The tennis courts were empty but brightly lit, in case any enthusiast fancied a game on a cold autumn night. While the dogs ran off steam chasing balls around the court, I checked my texts. Five were from Bernie, anxious for word on August. She was about as subtle as Mitch, and equally insistent, scratching and whining at my in-box.

I tried August’s phone number—I’d entered it in my speed-dial file and had been trying it periodically throughout the day. This time, as before, I got a tinny voice saying that he wasn’t answering and that his mailbox was full.

the police aren’t very interested, I texted Bernie and Angela. the odds are the break-in has nothing to do with august, but it still would be good if he turned up.

Of course Bernie called almost at once and Angela about half an hour later, but I told them both I’d give them more details the next day, after I’d been to his apartment. “I want to see if I can find a friend or neighbor he might have talked to.”

I changed into a silk shirt and a wool wrap and went down to the Golden Glow, the bar where I’ve been spending too much time lately. I needed the warmth of Sal Barthele’s Tiffany lamps and the smoothness of her whisky, but mostly her acerbic friendship.

The next morning, when I got to August’s place, I was long after the fair. My only consolation was knowing that if I’d gone last night, I would still have been too late.

August rented a one-bedroom in a courtyard building, six entrances, three stories, no doorman. I rang the bell, waited a minute, leaned on it for a good thirty seconds, waited again, but still had no response to my third ring.

There was a semiresident super—he had an apartment on the ground floor of one of the units opposite August’s, but he also covered another building around the corner on Halsted. I knew this because my superior detecting skills had discovered the notice in the outer doorway about where to find Jorge Baros if he wasn’t in the Buckingham Place building.

I called the number on the notice, saying I was a detective with some questions about August Veriden. Baros was in the middle of a plumbing repair.

“I am very worried about Mr. Veriden,” Baros said, “but I have water leaking through two floors here. Wait for me and I will come as fast as I may.”