“Of course I’m not okay,” she said, suddenly indignant. “How could I be okay when Brian is in the hospital, when someone has done something so horrible to him? How could anyone be okay at a time like this? And how are we going to get that mess off his back? I’ve heard they can remove those things, but it must be awfully painful. They use lasers or something. I was looking it up on the Internet. It’s horrible, just horrible.”

She stopped abruptly, as though something had just occurred to her.

“What was the name again?”

“Cory Calder.”

“Do you—are you thinking he’s the man who did it?”

“We want to talk to him,” Duckworth said.

“What does that mean? Does that mean you suspect him? Is that what that means?”

“He’s what we would call a person of interest.”

Constance’s hands were shaking. She linked them together to make them stop. “Are you sure there wasn’t another name? Another person of interest?”

“That’s the only name I have at the moment. Why? Were you expecting me to mention someone else?”

“No!” she said. “Why would I? It’s just, this person of interest, as you call him, he might not have acted alone. He might have had help.”

“That’s possible. As I said, I’d like to bounce that name off your husband, too,” Duckworth said.

“I told you, he’s not here.”

“Does he carry a phone?”

“Why don’t I ask him about this Cal Colby when he gets home, and if he recognizes the name, I’ll have him call you.”

“Cory Calder,” Duckworth said. “Not Cal Colby.”

A nervous titter escaped her lips. “Right.” She was looking over Duckworth’s shoulder at the house opposite. “I guess Mrs. Beecham’s moving out,” she said. “Maybe she’s going into a nursing home.”

“I wonder,” Duckworth said. He was about to turn and look across the street when something else caught his eye.

“Mrs. Gaffney, are you sure your husband isn’t home?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought I saw someone in that window.” He pointed to one of the small, square windows set into the garage door.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I was just in there. I took out the trash.” She forced a laugh. “I think if he’d been in there I would have seen him. Soon as I go into the house, I’ll call him, find out where he is, and have him call you. Would that be okay?”

Duckworth said slowly, “I guess that would be fine, Mrs. Gaffney. I appreciate your—”

That was when they both heard the shrieking. Not from the garage, but from across the street. Eleanor Beecham, struggling to support herself in the doorway of her home, was crying, “No! No! What are you doing? Stop it! Stop it!”