When they realized Carol was a nurse, they took her to one side for a more detailed set of questions.

“Do you know what’s wrong with her?” I asked Carol when the cops finally left.

“I think she broke something, probably her hip, getting out of the tub. She’s badly dehydrated, so her mind’s wandering a bit. I couldn’t get a clear picture of when she might have fallen. She might have been lying there a couple of days. We’re lucky we came down, Vic; I don’t think she’d’ve made it through the night.”

“So it’s a good thing I decided to get involved,” Todd put in.

“Involved?” Mr. Contreras huffed. “Involved? Who found her? Who got the medics? You just stood out there keeping your wing tips clean.”

That wasn’t a fair comment: Pichea was wearing Top-Siders.

“Look, here, old man,” he began, leaning toward Mr. Contreras.

“Don’t try to argue with them, Todd. They’re not the kind who can understand you.” Mrs. Pichea linked her arm through her husband’s and looked around the dirty hall, her nose wrinkling in contempt.

Mrs. Hellstrom touched my arm. “You gonna try to find her son, honey? Because I should be going home. I want to change these clothes, anyway.”

“Oh, there’s a son?” Pichea said. “Maybe it’s time he came home and took charge of his mother.”

“And maybe she wants to live her own life,” I snapped. “Why don’t you go to bed now, Pichea? You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

“Nope. I want to talk to the son, get him to understand that his mother’s gotten way out of hand.”

The dogs, who’d been barking at the ambulance, came roaring back into the house and started jumping up on us. Pichea stuck out one of his Top-Siders to kick the earmuff. As the little dog went yelping down the hall I clipped Pichea on the shin.

“It’s not your house, big guy. If you’re scared of dogs, stay at home.”

His tight, square face looked ugly. “I could have you brought in for assault, Warshawski.”

“You could, but you won’t. You’re too chicken to take on someone your own size.” I muscled my way past him and started a dispiriting search for a piece of paper with Mrs. Frizell’s son’s name on it. It took me only half an hour to realize I could call directory assistance in San Francisco—how many Frizells could there be? Six, as it turned out, with a couple of different spellings. The fourth one I reached, Byron, was her son. Tepid would be a strong description for his response to the news about his mother.

“You’ve got her to a hospital? Good, good. Thanks for taking the time to call.”

“You want to know what hospital?”