Instead, she continued to make nervous comments and to reach for her drink, and to ask him if he wanted something as she sipped and set her drink back down. The more she talked and reached for her drink, the less he said as he occupied her husband’s favorite leather recliner.

Investigator Marino had yet to tell her the purpose of his visit.

Finally she said, “Well, enough about me. I’m sure you’re very busy. What kind of investigator did you say you are? Burglary, I imagine. This is the time of year for it, and if I had my way about it, I’d certainly live in a full-service building with a doorman. What happened across the street. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”

“I’d appreciate whatever you can tell me about it,” Investigator Marino said, and his huge presence in the recliner seemed to shrink the image she had of her husband sitting there. “You find out from the Post, or did a neighbor say something?”

“Neither one.”

“I’m curious because nothing much about it’s made the news yet. We’re not releasing details, for good reason. The less known at this time, the better. You can see the logic in that, right? So you and me having this private little conversation’s between the two of us. Nothing said to the neighbors or anyone. I’m a special investigator for the DA’s office. That translates into court. I know you wouldn’t want to do anything that might mess up a case in court. You ever heard of Jaime Berger?”

“Yes, I certainly have,” Shrew replied, regretting she’d implied she knew something, and worrying what trouble she’d just caused herself. “I appreciate her advocacy of animal rights.”

He looked silently at her. She looked silently at him until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, reaching for her drink.

His glasses glinted as his attention poked around her apartment like a flashlight searching for something hidden or lost. He seemed especially interested in her extensive collection of porcelain and crystal dogs, and photographs of her with her husband and the various dogs they had owned throughout their lives together. She loved dogs. She loved them far more than her children.

Then the investigator stared down at the tan-and- blue braided rug under the old cherry coffee table.

“You got a dog?” he asked.

Obviously he’d noticed the tiny white-and- black dog hairs embedded in the rug, which weren’t really her fault. She’d had no success vacuuming them up, and didn’t feel like getting on her hands and knees, plucking them out, one at a time, as she continued to mourn the untimely death of Ivy.

“I’m not a bad housekeeper,” she said. “Dog hairs tend to work their way into things, and it’s difficult getting them out. Sort of like they do to your heart. Work their way in. I don’t know what it is about dogs, but God had a hand in it, and anybody who says they’re just animals has no soul. Dogs are fallen angels, while cats don’t live in this world. They just visit. Dog hairs can actually stick into your skin like splinters if you walk around barefoot. I’ve always had dogs. Just right now I don’t. Are you involved in Ms. Berger’s crusade against cruelty to animals? I’m feeling the bourbon, I’m afraid.”