“The story goes on: Mr. Hershel and the other investors went to Zack Meadows to apply for a license. Something went wrong. From there on out, it is all rumor and conjecture. The investors disappeared. The up-front money disappeared. We’re talking millions here. It all disappeared like magic. Mr. Hershel was a basket case, he’d just lost his wife, and he was left to battle it out on his own, and I guess he made a mess of things. I really don’t know any more than that. The few times we spoke on my rounds, he just said that Mr. Cricket was helping him and maybe that skunk Zack Meadows would get what’s coming to him.”

“Do you think the day Mr. Cricket came here and got shot he was coming to see Mr. Hershel? Ah, I can see it in your face. You do think that. Well, it makes sense now, doesn’t it?” Nick observed. “But that still doesn’t tell us why Mr. Hershel wasn’t smoking on the porch tonight. Why doesn’t he like to be indoors, do you know?”

“Actually, I do know, because he told me. Dolly isn’t in the apartment. He told me once they were never ever more than a foot apart their whole married life. When she passed away, he was lost without her. He had her cremated, and he believes her ashes are out there, and he needs to be where she is. He had them scattered, but he didn’t say where. He kept some of the ashes in a little gold snuffbox. Some people might think that’s ghoulish, but not him. He carries her with him twenty-four seven in his pocket. Never more than a foot apart. Closer if possible. To me, that says it all. True love. I hope I find someone someday who will love me like that,” Lionel said with a catch in his voice.

Nick digested Lionel’s words as he struggled to imagine the man’s love and devotion to his wife. He shook his head to clear his thoughts so he could function in the present. “It’s almost light out now. Dom should be back soon. What’s the plan, Lionel?”

“Mr. Emery is the plan. I’m going to call him and turn it all over to him. I’ll just tell him everything we’ve discussed and hope he can do something, or at least make sense out of what’s going on.”

“What if Mr. Hershel is inside and sick or . . . or . . .”

“Don’t go there, Nick,” Lionel said as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, scrolled through his directory, and punched in the numbers for Jack Emery’s cell phone.