I picked at the iceberg lettuce. “You know, Terry Finchley didn’t try to find Mitch’s son. And Jake didn’t. But someone claiming to be young Kruger did go to Mrs. Polter’s and ransack Mitch’s room only a day after his body was found. Either the guy did come to town unbeknownst to anyone but Mitch, or someone wanted something out of Mitch’s things bad enough to pretend to be him. I mean, either way, the person knew where he lived. Which meant Mitch had to tell them, because you and he—and Jake—were the only ones who knew.”

Mr. Contreras cocked an intelligent eye. “You want me to ask Jake did someone call trying to find Mitch’s new address?”

I hunched a shoulder impatiently. “I suppose. I’d like to come up with some photos, show ’em on the street. You know, we don’t know whether Mitch’s son stayed in Arizona. Hell, he’d be my age—older. He could be anywhere. You remember his name?”

“Mitch, Junior,” Mr. Contreras said promptly. “I always remember resenting the fact that he had a Junior and I only had Ruthie. Stupid kind of thing. It doesn’t mean nothing, I can see that now, but at the time … oh, well, you don’t want to hear about that.”

I wiped my fingers on the wet paper towel he had provided. Mounting a search for a person who could be anywhere was way outside my resources—it meant going into state motor-vehicle departments, writing the Pentagon, all kinds of activities I didn’t have time or money to undertake. Still, a picture of Mitch, Jr. would be very helpful.

“You want to bankroll some ads, since you don’t waste your money on a car? We could run some in all the Arizona papers, and ones around here. You know, if Mitch Kruger, once of Chicago, writes a certain address, he’ll hear something to his advantage.”

Mr. Contreras rubbed his hands together. “Just like out of Sherlock Holmes. Good idea, doll. Good idea. Want me to take care of it?”

I graciously gave my consent and stood up. “I’m going downtown and I’d like to go out the back way. In case the boys who took your pal’s car are waiting with another one out front. Can you let me out through your kitchen?”

“Downtown?” His eyes flicked to my left armpit. “What’re you doing downtown?”

I smiled. “A little office work.”

“That why you need the gun? To shoot holes in a letter and hope it’ll go away?”

I laughed. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I am not going off for a violent confrontation. I’m hoping I won’t see a single soul. But you know my methods, Watson: guys start taking shots at me, or my friends, I don’t walk the mean streets without a little protection.”