Mr. Contreras roused himself from his worries to direct me to Eddie Mohr’s house on Albany near Fortieth Street. I managed to exit without being run over. We suddenly found ourselves in an oasis of bungalows with well-tended yards, one of those pockets of tidiness that make the city look like a small, friendly town.

In neighborhoods like these the garages are approached from the alleys that run behind the houses. I pulled up in front, wondering if the Oldsmobile that had been used in the attack on Lotty was out back. I’d like to sneak a look at it before we left. A spotless Riviera sat in front of the house—presumably that was Mrs. Mohr’s car. I moved the Impala up behind it.

Mr. Contreras took his time getting out of the car. I watched his unhappy maneuvering for a minute, then turned and marched briskly up the walk to the front door. I rang the doorbell without waiting for him to catch up with me—I didn’t want to turn this into an all-night vigil while he decided whether or not he was scabbing by bringing me down to meet the guy.

The house itself was blanketed with thick curtains. It felt like a place empty of inhabitants. After a long few minutes, in which I debated going around to the back or just sitting in the Impala until someone showed up, I caught a movement in the thick shroud next to the door. Someone was inspecting me. I tried to look earnest and sincere and hoped that Mr. Contreras, now standing behind me, didn’t look too woebegone for conversation.

A woman of about fifty opened the door. Her faded blond hair was matted in uneven clumps, as though glued to her head by an inexpert wigmaker. She stared at us through protuberant, lackluster eyes.

“We’ve come to see Eddie Mohr,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Mohr?”

“I’m his daughter, Mrs. Johnson. He won’t be ready for viewing until next week, but you can talk to Mother if you’re old friends of his.”

“Ready for viewing?” My jaw dropped slackly. “Is he—he isn’t dead, is he?”

“Isn’t that why you came? I wondered how you knew so fast. I thought maybe that was your father with you.”

Mr. Contreras clutched my arm, his legs suddenly unsteady. “I just talked to him this morning, doll. He—he was expecting us. I … He sounded fine to me then.”

I turned to look at him, but none of the things I wanted to say were appropriate at such a moment. No wonder he’d been so subdued: he knew I wanted to try to catch Eddie unawares. He may have felt he was betraying the local, but he probably thought he was betraying me too.