“She wasn’t home last night when we canvassed the building, but Bruxton left a message on her phone and she called this morning,” Renfrew explained.

“This morning? Yeah, if you mean seven A.M.,” said Bruxton.

“He’s not a morning person,” Renfrew explained. She nudged him. “Someday I’m going to murder the bugler…”

I got her reference—a lyric from an Irving Berlin song called “Oh! I Hate to Get Up in the Morning”—but Bruxton ignored it. “Sarah Lyons kept saying ‘You must be mistaken. This has to be a mistake.’ Then she told me I was crazy and hung up on me.”

Renfrew shook her head. “You have that effect on women, Brux. In any case, she called back and she’s coming in at noon. We thought it would be helpful to have you there.”

So there was a reason they had come by, more than curiosity about what they’d see if they caught me unawares. “Definitely,” I said. “Count me in.”

“Is that actually on the up-and-up?” Jesse interrupted, surprising me. “I mean, if you’re questioning a suspect, can you just bring someone else along for the ride?”

“Sarah Lyons is a witness, not a suspect at this point,” Renfrew clarified. “As long as she gives her permission—and she was enthusiastic when I suggested that Lily sit in on this—it’s on the level.”

“Have you found out anything yet about who the dead woman was? What about her fingerprints?” I asked.

“Ran them through the system, came up empty,” said Bruxton. “We’re trying to match the one photo we have of her to driver’s license photos, but you have to run that state by state. No hits yet. It would be easier if we had a photo of her alive.”

“Do you have any idea where my sister is? An old friend of mine came over last night and said that Claudia had called just after Christmas, wanting money to go to rehab. I think she must be at some rehab center now.” It was a relief to be able to point the detectives in this new direction, feeling sure that Claudia would have a solid alibi for the time that another woman was expiring in her apartment.

“This friend of yours, she have a name?” asked Bruxton.

“It’s a he,” I said. “Martin Sklar.”

“Rings a bell,” said Renfrew, writing the name on her notepad and handing it to me to check the spelling. I added his phone number and home address underneath, embarrassed that I still remembered so much. To be fair, he lived in the Dakota, a landmark building that every New Yorker knew.

“He owns a bunch of boutique hotels and condos,” Jesse piped in. “You know that new hotel on Lispenard, the Oracle? That’s his.”