Park benches were also hot gathering spots for the homeless. Some ate sandwiches out of paper bags; others spooned directly out of cans. An old, hunched black man, weighted down by a mountaineer’s backpack, read the morning paper as the people around him kibitzed with each other. Discussions ranged from jocular ribbing to the inequities of politics. Decker sensed a well-formed camaraderie. And, as he and Marge passed by, not one of them asked for a handout. Perhaps it was the realization that at this time of the morning, the crowd could only be locals—people on fixed incomes or no income at all. Why squeeze blood from a turnip?

Decker studied the faces as he looked for Robles’s address. Yes, the men and women looked unkempt, uncared for, but they didn’t seem depressed. They may have been down, but they weren’t out.

Robles’s address put them in front of a square apartment building checkerboarded with patio windows. The building was fronted by a cinder-block wall painted in several shades of beige and brown—different colors used to hide graffiti rather than for decoration. Robles’s window was covered with drapery. The front door was flecked with peeling white paint and had no knocker or doorbell. Decker used his knuckles.

Immediately, a baby started to wail. Marge gave him a wide grin. She felt excitement down to her toes. “You say a long shot, do you?”

Decker said, “People named Robles are allowed to have babies, Marge.”

“Admit it. Your heart’s beating.”

Racing actually, Decker thought. As much as he tried to remain detached to avoid disappointment, he couldn’t help but hope. He knocked again. Finally, a husky, agitated female voice spoke from behind the door, asking who it was.

“Police, ma’am,” Marge said. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”

There was a stretch of silence that went on too long. Decker knocked harder. “Police, ma’am! Open up!”

Marge said, “Should we break down the door?”

“Don’t have probable cause.”

“But the baby’s crying.”

“That’s what babies do,” Decker said. “Where’s the back door?”

“I don’t think there is a back door.”

“Well, then she can’t go anywhere.” Decker pounded on the door. “Police, ma’am. Open the door right now!”

A moment later, the door opened a crack, a small, useless chain still attached from the door to the jamb. The woman asked, “Just what do you want?”

“To ask you a few questions,” Marge said.

“So talk.”

“Open the door, ma’am,” Decker said.

“If I’m going to open the door, I’ll need to see identification.”

Marge showed her I.D. through the crack in the door. A moment later, the door closed, then opened all the way.

Decker’s mouth dropped open.