Toby Lloyd was pounding a basketball on the drive, hopping sideways and swiveling his head as if he were being covered by David Robinson and Magic Johnson. I parked about thirty feet back to give him room to work the ball and got out. “Hi. Remember me from the bank?”

“Sure.” He bounced the ball a couple of times, then turned and launched one toward the basket. It banged off the backboard and went through the net.

I said, “Gotta be tough shooting in the cold. Gets your fingers stiff.”

He nodded and scooped up the rebound. “You want to see my mom?”

“Yeah. She inside?”

“Sure. C’mon.” Elvis Cole, friend of the family, comes to call.

He led me through the garage and a laundry room and into their kitchen. The walls and the ceilings and the floors and the appliances were still new-house bright, without the ground-in dirt that comes as the years put their wear of life on a place. A thick spaghetti sauce was simmering on top of a Jenn-Air range, a fine spray of the sauce a red shadow on the enamel. Toby yelled, “Hey, Mom, there’s somebody here to see you!”

We went out of the kitchen and through the dining room and into the living room. Karen Shipley came out of a hallway from the back of the house in a pink sweatshirt and faded blue jeans and white socks with little pompoms at the heels. She said, “What did you say, hon?” Then she saw me.

I said, “Hi, Karen.”

There was a small part of a moment as she saw me when her eyes flickered and her breath might have caught, but then she forced a pretty good smile for the boy like everything was fine. “You’re still here.”

“Unh-hunh.”

More of the smile for the boy. “Tobe. Mr. Cole and I have something to discuss. Would you leave us alone for a while?”

“Okay.” Like he was used to having to be out of the way when she talked business and that was just fine with him. He charged back through the kitchen and the laundry.

The living room was large and comfortable, with a vaulted beamed ceiling and peg-and-groove floors and Early American furniture across from a used brick fireplace with a mantel. Colonial. A white and orange cat was asleep on the couch.

Karen Shipley said, “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Cole. My name is not Karen Shipley.”

I said, “You’re owned by the mob.”

She went very still, and then her left foot moved as if her balance had abruptly and without warning shifted and she had to catch herself. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she wet her lips. She did not look away from me. Outside, Toby bounced the basketball. There was a faraway electric hum from something in the kitchen and something else behind me in the living room. Clocks. She said, “That’s,” and then she said, “Silly.”