From my vantage in the grass, I could see the whole street. As I stood there, I noticed a gray sedan easing down the block, its lights on. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. The car reached the corner and turned, but I had the feeling it would be back. I was right. Less than ten minutes later, I saw it again, retracing its route down the street. This time, it pulled onto the park sidewalk near me and stopped.

A tall man with a skeletal appearance got out. He wore a wrinkled tan trench coat over a white shirt and baggy black pants. He had a casual, stooped walk, but he wasn’t out for a stroll. He headed straight for me.

It was Detective Harvey Bushing.

“Excuse me,” he called, pulling out his badge and introducing himself. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“If you like.”

“Do you live around here?”

I nodded at the building across the street. “Yes, that’s my apartment right over there.”

“And your name is?”

“Dylan Moran.”

“Got any ID, Mr. Moran?”

I thought about arguing with him, but I pulled out a driver’s license and gave it to him, and he studied it with careful eyes. When he handed it back to me, he said in his monotone voice, “I’m just curious, Mr. Moran. If you live right over there, what are you doing in the park?”

“Enjoying the evening air,” I replied.

“Well, I’ve been down this street three times, and you haven’t moved. You just keep watching the building. Are you waiting for someone?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s just that most people go for a walk, or sit on the bench, or light up a smoke, or something like that. Not too many people stand there and stare at their own house.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Not at all.” But he was clearly waiting for an explanation, and the longer I made him wait, the more questions he’d ask.

“Look, Detective, I’ve lived in this area for most of my life. My grandfather owned the building, and he used to live in the upstairs apartment. He died a couple of years ago. We didn’t exactly have the best relationship, and sometimes I like to come out here and think about him. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Bushing reached into his trench coat and pulled out a photograph. “Since you know the area, maybe you can help me out here, Mr. Moran. Do you remember seeing this woman around the neighborhood?”

I didn’t need to squint in the diminishing light to see who it was. I recognized the picture from the headline in the Tribune, but that was in another world. It was Betsy Kern.

“No, I haven’t.”

“You sure? She only lives a couple of blocks away.”

“Sorry. I’m sure.”