Harvey nodded.

Duckworth opened the door himself and descended the stairs into a dimly lit wood-paneled recreation room that smelled of mold and urine. Brown shag carpeting from the time of the Reagan administration covered much of the floor. The walls were adorned with cheaply framed nature scenes that looked like paint-by-number pieces. An old black-and-white movie was playing on the TV. John Wayne was riding a horse.

Eleanor Beecham was sitting on a plaid recliner, legs extended under a pink chenille blanket. She looked to be in her late eighties. Her face was pale and wrinkled, and the few gray hairs still on her head stuck out in all directions. Tucked between her thigh and the edge of the chair was a box of tissues, a remote, a checkbook, a hairbrush, and a bag of mini Mars candy bars like one would give to kids at Halloween.

“Mrs. Beecham?” Duckworth said.

The woman’s head turned slowly. She focused her eyes on him and said, “Well, look who’s here.” There was chocolate stuck to one of her teeth.

“Have we met before?” he said.

“Don’t think so.”

“But you recognize me?”

“Nope.”

He smiled and showed her his ID. “I’m Detective Barry Duckworth, with the Promise Falls Police.” He sat down on a couch at right angles to the woman’s chair.

“Nice to meet ya. You like John Wayne?”

“Sure. He was one of the great movie stars of all time.”

“Whaddya mean, was? He’s dead?”

Duckworth hated to be the bearer of bad news. “I’m afraid so. For a long time, now.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” She shook her head sadly. “Gone too soon.”

“It happens. I wonder if you’d mind turning down the TV so I could ask you a couple of questions.”

She hunted for the remote, pointed it to the set and muted it. “Whatcha want?”

“I wanted to ask you about your neighbors across the street.”

Eleanor Beecham furrowed her brow. “What about ’em?”

“Specifically, I wanted to ask you about Brian. Brian Gaffney?”

She grimaced. “That simpleton? What’s he gone and done now?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

She struggled to remember. “The other day, I saw his dad teaching him how to ride a bike. He caught onto it real fast.”

Duckworth nodded slowly. “Right. That was probably quite a few years ago, though, when he was very young.”

She studied him with glassy eyes, waiting for another question. At that moment Duckworth heard breathing behind him. He turned, spotted Norma Lastman huddling near the top of the stairs.

“This is a private conversation,” he told her. He waited until the woman had retreated, and closed the door, before continuing.

“What about when he started driving a car? Do you remember that? Was there an incident with your dog?”

“With Sean?” Her face brightened.

“Yes. With Sean.”

Mrs. Beecham’s face appeared to melt. “He was the nicest dog. Smart, too.”

“Really.”

“Oh, yeah. My husband could say to him, go find my slippers, and Sean would run up the stairs and fetch them. He was a good dog. Licked himself a lot. My husband used to say he envied his flexibility.”