Sweltering, she rearranged the gray collar and wiped at her forehead. Then she took a deep breath and hurried across the street. On the low stoop of the house next door, she knocked briskly. No one stirred. Since it was early afternoon, she wasn’t surprised. Normal people were still at work or out on errands. They weren’t likely to be at home or, she acknowledged with a touch of morbidity, invading the homes of the dead.

With a grimace, she crossed Julian’s lawn and repeated her peremptory summons. This time, a man stepped out onto the cluttered front entrance. Her years among students pegged his age at eighteen, maybe nineteen. A dissolute, pampered nineteen. His outfit certainly fit the bill. It consisted of the bottom half of a pair of expensive silk pajamas. Greasy blond hair drooped down over bloodshot eyes and stopped above a reddened nose that had been broken at least once. Or, at least, the capillaries had.

“You one of those church people?” He squinted at her, despite the shaded overhang of his balcony. “’Cause I’m an aesthetic.”

Erin winced. “I believe you mean you’re an atheist.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Look, lady, I don’t want to buy anything.” He leaned in, leering. “Unless you’re selling something good?”

She took a hasty step back as fumes assaulted her. He apparently hadn’t brushed his teeth recently. “I was just wondering if you knew my cousin?”

“Your cousin?” The man looked around suspiciously. “Who’s your cousin?”

Erin pointed hurriedly at the next house. “He lives there. Julian Harris.”

He guffawed loudly, bathing her in a foul aroma.

She took shallow breaths and waited for the stench to pass. “Do you know him?”

“I know you’re not his cousin.” Dubious, he scratched at a furry chest. “Mr. High-and-Mighty was a lot lighter than you.”

Thinking fast, she stiffened and pretended to be insulted. “He was from my mother’s side of the family.”

He studied her afresh, looking for evidence, but he couldn’t really tell the difference anyhow. “Oh. Well.” Bored by the interview, he jerked his thumb toward the house. “Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s dead. Cops found him at work.”

“Dead?” She gulped as though the news were new. “Do they know who killed him?”

Interest renewed, he shifted toward her. In a rough whisper, he offered, “I heard it was drug related. Like the Mafia. They strangled him and everything.” He scanned her face. “Your mom Italian?”

“No. She’s not.” In fetid proximity, odors from body and mouth attacked with coordinated, military precision. She pressed her hand to her stomach and tried not to retch. “When did he die?”

“Weeks ago. House has been closed up since then. They said he had no family.” As he spoke, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“We’re distant cousins,” explained a familiar voice from behind her. “Related by marriage.”