Her building was a mint-green fifties dingbat. The front was an open carport set behind oil-specked concrete. Six parking slots, unoccupied but for a dusty brown Dodge minivan. The facade was spanned by two olive-green diamonds. Speckles in the stucco caught afternoon light. Way too giddy.

A bank of key-lock mailboxes set into the wall just south of the parking area bore no names, only unit numbers. No manager designation. Michaela’s compartment was shut tight. Milo squinted through the slot. “Lots of stuff inside.”

Her apartment was at the back. Louvre windows as old as the building were a burglar’s dream. The glass slats were folded shut but green curtains had been left slightly parted. Dark inside, but the outlines of furniture were clear.

Milo began knocking on doors.

* * *

The only tenant at home was a woman in her twenties wearing a stiff, brandy-colored wig and a calf-length denim jumper over a white, long-sleeved sweater. The wig made me wonder about chemotherapy, but she was buxom and her gray eyes were clear. The same kind of lightly freckled complexion Michaela Brand had been blessed with. Open face tightened by surprise.

I saw the side curls and yarmulke on the squirming blond boy she was holding and got it: Some Orthodox Jewish women covered their natural hair out of modesty.

The badge made her press her son to her chest. “Yes?”

The boy’s arms and feet shot out simultaneously and she nearly lost her grip. He looked to be three or so. Stocky and sturdy, twisting and turning, emitting little growly noises.

“Calm down, Gershie Yoel!”

The boy waved a fist. “Hero hero Yehudah! Fall the elephant!”

He squirmed some more and she gave up and set him down. He rocked on his feet and growled some more. Eyed us and said, “Fall!”

“Gershie Yoel, go in the kitchen and take a cookie— but only one. And don’t wake up the babies!”

“Hero-hero! Yehudah HaMakawbee gonna spear you bad Greek!”

“Go now, good boy, or no cookie!”

“Grr!” Gershie Yoel ran off, past walls covered with bookshelves. Books on every table and the couch. Any remaining space was filled with playpens and toys and packages of disposable diapers.

The boy’s shouts diminished.

“He’s still celebrating the holidays,” said the young woman.

“Hanukkah?” said Milo.

She smiled. “Yes. He thinks he’s Yehudah— Judah Maccabee. That’s a big hero in the Hannukah story. The elephant is from a story about one of his brothers— ” She stopped, blushed. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re here about one of your neighbors, Mrs....”

“Winograd. Shayndie Winograd.”

Milo had her spell it and wrote it down.

She said, “You need my name?”

“Just for the record, ma’am.”

“Which neighbors, the punk rockers?”

“Which punk rockers are those?”