Now the faded glamour of the old theater district sprang up around us. In the building’s first stories, red-and-yellow sale signs advertised knockoff watches and jewelry. Grand windows and porticos vaulted above them, blackened by smog and crusted with pigeon droppings. Yegina had told me these blocks were filled with illegal garment sweatshops, but if people really were working upstairs, they didn’t come near the dusty panes. The upper stories projected emptiness and ruin. The only life was at the street level: a pop-up Pentecostal church, vendors of cheap, glittering luxuries. A bridal and tuxedo store spilled to the sidewalk with poufy pastel shirts and dresses, but even it looked less vibrant than impulsive, as if the storefront could fold up tomorrow and disappear.

Janis opened her eyes. “Dee wants a tux from that place,” she observed, staring out the window.

“She’d look fantastic in one,” I said. With Dee’s choppy blond hair and lean form, she could pretty much wear any garment and make it seem cool and carefree. “Maybe for her show next week,” I added.

Dee was in an “ethereal punk” band and had invited me and Yegina to their upcoming gig. I was pretty sure her style would outstrip her musical ability, and very sure that we would love it anyway. That was the Dee effect, and she still cast it, even through the hardship of keeping her crew together after they’d found out the whole story of Kim Lord’s death.

“Maybe,” said Janis, brightening for the first time as she gazed at the tuxes. A gift for Dee. It was touching how much Janis liked being generous.

The car slowed; we were outside Café Francesca. The restaurant occupied both floors of a narrow brick building where two streets arrowed together. Downstairs and upstairs patios extended in tiers, each girded by a delicate, white wrought-iron rail and shaded by red umbrellas. The food was delicious, and usually a little beyond my budget.

Janis Rocque leaped out. “We’re late,” she said. I hurried after her upstairs through the creamy yellow rooms of the restaurant and out to the top deck, where couples were sitting, holding menus. It took me a moment to register one couple in particular: They sat at a four-top, talking intently. Ray’s back was to me, leaning forward in a navy button-down, but the instant we arrived, he twisted as if someone had called his name. His blue eyes caught mine, then looked away. The woman with him had black hair combed down to her shoulders and wore a pale purple suit that hugged her curves. Detective Alicia Ruiz had the same thick eyebrows and calm, receptive face, but she appeared different and, frankly, much lovelier than when I’d last seen her. New uniform? Or was this her day off?