While Mr. Contreras set to work installing the locks, I made a half–hearted effort to organize the wreck. The Isabel Bishop I handled with latex gloves, putting it in a plastic bag to give to Mary Louise on Monday. I wanted her to get it dusted for fingerprints and to have someone in the department run a check on AFIS. I also figured I could pay her to put files in order: it would be so much easier for her than for me, since she was not only more organized, but not so emotionally invested in the destruction.

I did restore the couch, screw in the light bulbs that the vandal cops had removed, picked up obvious garbage, scrubbed coffee stains from the little bit of carpet. My mother’s engraving of the Uffizi Gallery had been knocked over and the glass cracked. I bit my lip but put it in the bag with the Isabel Bishop. I wasn’t going to break down over this. The picture wasn’t damaged underneath; the glass could be replaced.

The printer cartridge Lemour had dropped on the floor was leaking carbon. I threw it out, cleaned out the printer, and installed a fresh cartridge. I held my breath and turned on the machine. I hit the TEST button, and a page of beautifully executed font samples ran out the mouth. I felt better. One small vessel saved from the inferno.

When Mr. Contreras grunted with satisfaction that he’d got the place pretty well bolted down, my office still looked like the Titanic after the iceberg. Who would have thought the old room had so much paper in it?

Mr. Contreras praised my progress—more visible to him than me—and I dutifully praised his handiwork, which was actually quite impressive. With a handful of inexpensive tools he’d installed a serious lock system. Nothing is impregnable, but this would take long enough to smash that Elton or someone might wander along and interrupt the intruders. I took time to call Tessa’s mother to explain what I’d done and to leave a message for Tessa—I’d drop off a spare key before she got back from her sailing trip.

As we walked to the car, Elton popped out of the shadows. “Saw you had the cops with you, Vic. They find anything?”

“Nada. But the sergeant who came is in on the fix. If you see anyone—don’t call 911, because the cops may be the perps. Call—can he call you?” I asked Mr. Contreras. “I’m not home enough.”

My neighbor wasn’t pleased at my involving him with a street person, but he grudgingly agreed that I could write his phone number on one of my business cards and hand it to Elton. “Call collect,” I recklessly committed my neighbor. Illinois Bell charges thirty–five cents—it’s even harder for the homeless to come up with correct change than for the rest of us.