I figured there wasn’t any point trying to hide the Impala. By now anyone who wanted to know where I was must have a pretty clear fix on every move I was making. I certainly wasn’t convinced that Mrs. Polter wouldn’t call Milt Chamfers the minute I left her house. I sat across from my apartment for several minutes, scanning the street for anyone who looked out of place.

Finally I slid across the seat and out the passenger door, my gun in my hand. As I got to the front door a squad car cruised slowly by, its spot ostentatiously playing on the entrance. I put down my suitcase and waved with my left hand, hoping the shadows concealed the Smith & Wesson. Sergeant Rawlings on the case. I didn’t know if I liked the little flicker of warmth the idea gave me: it’s a mistake to get too dependent on someone else for your own well-being.

Mr. Contreras surged out to meet me in the lobby. He insisted on taking the suitcase from me and carrying it upstairs. I offered him a choice between wine and whisky, but he’d brought a bottle of his own grappa. He settled down at the kitchen table with a glass while I changed into dry shoes and a clean pair of jeans.

I hadn’t looked at Mrs. Polter’s newsprint package—just stuck it into the band of my sweatpants when she handed it to me. I didn’t want to seem too eager in front of her. Besides, I was afraid to unwrap it—afraid that the collection of papers would mean as little to me as to her. I’d put the bundle on my dresser while I changed, but I kept eyeing it. When I went back to the kitchen I took a deep breath and carried it with me.

I dumped it casually in front of Mr. Contreras. “These are Mitch’s private papers. Mrs. Polter had filched them from his room after he died, but she decided to turn them over to me. Want to see if there’s anything hot in them while I start dinner?”

I bustled around with a skillet and olive oil, chopping mushrooms and olives as if the little bundle held no interest for me. Behind me I could hear the newspaper rattle as Mr. Contreras peeled it off, and then his laborious picking apart of the contents. I dusted the chicken with flour and dropped it in the pan. The sound of frying drowned the noise of the paper.

Finally, after flaming some brandy over the chicken and covering the pan, washing my hands with the deliberation of a surgeon, and pouring a large whisky to cover the thin beer that kept making me burp, I sat down next to Mr. Contreras.