“So maybe some teller pulled up her signature card and got a bad feeling, wouldn’t cash it for him, plus his driver’s license isn’t valid, like I said. And that might be what the bank was calling about,” Machado says. “There are a couple messages on her answering machine from Wells Fargo, asking her to call. First one in early June, about the time the check was mailed to Howie.”

“How do you know it was mailed?” Lucy scans information scrolling by on every screen, what I recognize as files her search engines are finding.

I can’t tell what they are. I can’t decipher what I’m seeing, and that’s deliberate, because I’m not alone.

“What’s called the power of deduction.” Machado continues looking at my niece as if she might not be a waste of his time.

She’s in faded jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt that is tight and could use ironing, and tactical boots. I’m aware of the big ring on her index finger as she moves the wireless mouse. I smell her cologne, and I can tell when she wants people to leave us alone because she has something important on her mind.

“If someone stole her identity,” Machado is saying, “then this person wasn’t going to show up at Howie’s house and hand him a check, right? Safest thing would be to mail it. My guess is it’s the same thing this person was doing with her other bills. Forging checks and mailing them, and the bank probably wasn’t going to question checks made out to the gas, electric, and telephone companies. But they might pull up her signature card when someone walks in and looks like a homeless person.”

“It’s not a good forgery, hardly a serious attempt at it,” Lucy says.

I have two transparent plastic bags side by side, the check Howard Roth never cashed, and an earlier canceled one that Machado found in a file of bank statements inside Peggy Stanton’s house.

“Not signed but written or basically drawn.” She moves close to me, her eyes locked on Toby as he finally leaves.

“I didn’t realize she was a handwriting expert,” Machado says, and now he’s openly flirting with my niece.

“I don’t have to be an expert.” She gets up and shuts her door, and Machado watches her as if she’s a tartar. “Somebody lousy.”

“Maybe he got better at it,” I reply. “June first was early on.”

Lucy sits back down. “Since when is Toby in charge of mail?”

“I sent Bryce on an errand,” I reply. “He’s taking Shaw to the vet. In fact, I’m hoping he’ll fall in love with her and decide Indy needs a sister.”

“The shaft of the letter P?” Lucy slides the plastic bags closer.