“Really, Vic, must you put it like that?” she snorted, then leaned across the seat to kiss me. “Please don’t move rashly on this investigation. You’re in a swamp, my dear; it’s important that you test each step before putting your full weight on it. Yes?”

I held her for a moment, drawing comfort from her embrace. “I’ll try to move cautiously.”

“I’ll call you in the morning, my dear, after I’ve spoken to Max.” She squeezed me briefly and put the car into gear again. “Remember, you’re coming to dinner at my place on Monday.”

Mr. Contreras was waiting for me on the front stoop. He had spent the day on the phone tracking down cars and badly wanted to talk about them. He’d located an old Buick in Park Ridge that he thought would be the best bet and arranged with the seller for us to look at it tonight—which meant a nice long ride on public transportation, since a cab to the suburbs would run at least forty dollars.

When Lotty roared through that intersection, it had occurred to me I probably left skid marks on the road. Just in case, and just in case no one had obliterated them, I wanted to get up there to photograph them while some daylight remained. Mr. Contreras, always eager for a piece of real detection, called the car owner to say we’d be a little late so that he could help me inspect. I took the dogs for a quick walk around the block and collected my camera and a magnifying glass.

We rode the Red Line up to Berwyn, which was only five blocks from the accident. The golden light of a summer sunset made the streets appear less tawdry than they had in the middle of the night. A group of boys pedaled by, some sitting two to a bike, and we passed a few skateboarders, but no Rollerbladers—in–line skates belong to the yuppie world further south.

At the corner of Balmoral a group of girls was jumping rope. I noticed two Mad Virgin T–shirts on girls whose dark hair was pulled back under fringed scarves. Global Entertainment’s tendrils reached even into the immigrant communities.

When I inspected the street I realized I’d wasted time on a fool’s errand. The fireplug I’d hit was slightly bent, and even after almost eighteen hours you could still see a trace of rubber in the road where I’d stood on my brakes. But there was no sign of where Nicola Aguinaldo had lain. She hadn’t been dead when we found her: no one outlined her body in chalk. I photographed the tread marks and the fireplug, using a flash since the light was dying.