The man was plump, in his mid-thirties, blond, balding, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He had a small mouth and the beginnings of a double chin. “Well, I’ll have to see,” he said, pleasantly enough. “She’s been sick.”

“I know,” Leland said. “Mrs. MacIver told me.”

The man stared. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m looking into the death of Colin MacIver.”

“What did you say?” In his shirt sleeves he tried to step out onto the stoop. The wind hit him and he looked around. “Come in, come in, but speak softly. This is the first we’ve heard.” He closed the door and led Leland to the foot of the stairs to the second floor. He held Leland’s forearm. “When was this? How did it happen?”

“Over three months ago.” Leland decided not to fox around with this man. “MacIver jumped, fell, or was thrown from the roof of Flatlands Racetrack in Port Smith on August twelfth.”

“My God! What a terrible thing!”

“Who is it, Murray?”

“A man, dear! He wants to ask me some questions!”

“Say I’m an insurance investigator asking about a neighbor, if you want,” Leland said quietly.

“He’s a private detective!” Murray Kaminsky called up.

“What does he want?”

Leland realized that he had no idea of what she looked like.

“I’ll tell you,” Kaminsky called. “Just relax.” He turned to Leland. “All she’s had is a touch of flu. She’s better now, but I don’t know whether you can see her. She isn’t going to take this well.”

“I understand. But maybe you can help me. There are some serious questions about MacIver’s death.”

“I guess there are. I’ll see what I can do. What an awful thing. You want to come into the kitchen? She won’t hear us there. Let me see if she needs anything.”

Leland opened his coat while he waited. The kitchen had a northern exposure and needed light. The walls were a vivid yellow, so intense it hurt the eyes. After a moment the muffled voices upstairs stopped. Kaminsky appeared. He flipped the wall switch and an overhead fluorescent light blossomed. It left Leland blinking.

“Have a seat,” Kaminsky said.

They sat down on opposite sides of a white Formica table. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks. Take off your coat. Put it over the back of the chair.” Kaminsky moved a glass ash tray to the center of the table.

“I appreciate this help, Mr. Kaminsky—”

“Murray.” He took Leland’s light.

“Call me Joe. Murray, I appreciate this, so I’ll level with you. MacIver’s death was ruled a suicide, but we want to be sure. Did you ever meet him?”

“No, but I saw pictures of him. I would have known him anywhere.”

“Are those pictures still around?”