Well, well. Girl radical had gone to Hollywood, cut her halo of wild hair close to her head, changed her name—and conducted surgery on her politics. No wonder she’d given me that challenging stare last night.

I put away the directory. Emphysema had forced my father onto long–term disability when I was in law school. His illness affected everything about me then, from my decision to marry in the hopes I’d produce a grandchild for him before he died to my lack of interest in campus politics. I’d taken the public defender’s job so I could stay in Chicago and be with him. He died two years later. My marriage hadn’t survived much longer. I’d never had a child.

The dogs were pacing restlessly, a sign that they badly needed a walk. I carefully rewrapped the silk dress and pushed the trunk back into the closet. I promised the dogs I’d be with them as soon as I checked my appointments on my Palm Pilot. I had a one o’clock with one of my few really important clients—translate that to read big retainer, big billing, prompt payment. Thanks to Lemour and the ruckus he’d stirred up, it was after eleven now. I barely had time to run the dogs and get something to eat. Since my refrigerator held only an orange besides the stale bread, I leashed up the dogs and went out with my backpack to forage for food.

A cool spring had given way overnight to the oppressive mugginess of midsummer. There aren’t any parks close to our building, but I couldn’t make the dogs do three miles to the lake and back in air that covered us like a sock. By the time we reached the grocery store, even Mitch had stopped pulling at the leash and was glad to rest in the shade of the building. I pulled a collapsible drinking bowl out of my pack and bought a bottle of water for them before buying my own food, along with a cappuccino from the coffee bar across the street.

As we ambled home in the heat, I kept wondering about the woman in the road. In the dark street I couldn’t tell what had happened to her, but that humerus sticking up like a branch from a swamp told some terrible tale of violence. The tall stolid detective had let out that the woman was sent to Beth Israel. That was fortunate, because Max Loewenthal, the executive director, was the lover of one of my oldest friends. With dogs in one hand and coffee in the other, I couldn’t very well whip out my cell phone to call the hospital. I urged the dogs to a trot, bribing them with some bread.