Duckworth shook his head. “I’m looking for Mrs. Beecham.”

“What do you want?”

Duckworth dug out his ID again and held it long enough for the man to grasp what it was but not long enough to study it.

The man said, “Uh, there’s no trouble here. Everything is fine.”

“Are you Mrs. Beecham’s son?”

“Uh, no.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Harvey.”

“Harvey what?”

The man hesitated. “Don’t I have the right not to tell you my name?”

“I suppose you do. You’d also be exercising your right to get on my bad side from the get-go.”

“Harvey Spratt,” he said.

Duckworth smiled. “That your van, Harvey?”

“It’s my girlfriend’s. Norma’s.”

“Well, Mr. Spratt, is Mrs. Beecham home?”

“Did she call you?”

“Mr. Spratt, this is the last time I ask before I start to get annoyed. Is Mrs. Beecham home?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to speak with her.”

Harvey Spratt weighed his options, decided he had few, and opened the door wide enough to admit Duckworth. “She’s downstairs watching TV,” he said.

Duckworth took in the disarray as he entered the house. Cardboard boxes, piles of clothing, newspapers, paperback novels, tools, a plastic bag filled with more plastic bags, a box of souvenirs including half a dozen snow globes and an Empire State Building bank, and odd bits of furniture cluttered the living room so completely it wasn’t possible to reach the sofa or easy chairs. Even if you could, they were piled with so much stuff you couldn’t sit on them.

As Harvey headed for a door that led, presumably, to the basement, a woman came out of the kitchen. She was roughly the same age as Spratt, about twice his size, dirty blonde hair hanging in her eyes. Her T-shirt, done in the style of that early Barack Obama “HOPE” poster, featured an image of a man with the word TRUTH below it. It took Duckworth a moment to realize it was Edward Snowden, the former CIA employee turned whistleblower.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Man wants to talk to Eleanor,” Harvey said. “He’s with the police.”

“Police?” The alarm was instantaneous.

Duckworth gave her a wary smile. “Are you related to Mrs. Beecham?”

“Eleanor? No. I come in three times a week to look after her.”

“You’re a nurse?”

The woman shook her head. “Personal care worker. I tend to her. Take care of her, clean the house, make meals, give her a bath, that kind of thing.”

Duckworth cast his eye into the kitchen. The counter was littered with dirty dishes.

“What’s your name?”

“Norma.”

“Last name?” What was it with these people? Duckworth wondered.

“Lastman.”

“Well, Norma, it’s nice to meet you. Is Mr. Spratt here helping you with your duties?”

“Harvey’s my boyfriend,” she said. “And yeah, he’s just giving me a hand.”

“With the bedroom suite that you’re selling?”

She shot Harvey a look. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s for sale. I have to have another chat with Eleanor.”

“Which is exactly what I would like to have,” Duckworth said. He tipped his head toward the door. “Down here?”