In any case, he went back in the booth, turned away while he made the call—perhaps mitigating risk of eye contact. Vincent saw him say a few words, inaudible through the glass and above the engine noise. Then he put down the phone and pushed a button on the desk, leaned out and said to head along to the far end.

Vincent rolled through the gates as they parted, followed the driveway through one gentle curve and then another. Flowerbeds and cacti on both sides, the houses set well back and tree-shaded. All very suburban and polite, and Sly’s place was no exception. It was a long, single-level place clad in stone, and the mailbox had gold letters spelling CROW. A Dodge people mover—a Grand Caravan—was parked in the driveway behind a yellow Corvette.

Vincent pulled up behind the Dodge and got out. As he shut his door and rounded the hood, a guy came out of the front door of the Crow place—a black guy nearing seventy, tall at six–four or five, and seeming even taller due to his build: lean, and turning dangly around the neck.

‘Andre, you’ve changed.’

He was in a black sweater and blue jeans turned up at the cuffs, a few inches of ankle showing above boat shoes.

Vincent said, ‘Is Sly home?’

The guy came over and stood close, helping his downward angle. ‘Who are you?’

Vincent said, ‘I worked for Eugene Lamar, until about eleven o’clock this morning.’

‘I just saw it on the news. Sorry for your loss.’ A deep voice with an easy rhythm, marijuana-slow.

Vincent said, ‘Sure. Sly was chasing him this morning for a debt, and now he’s been murdered.’ Trying to sound pleasant about it.

He looked around at the planting along the road, as if genuinely pleased to be here, looked the man in the eye and said, ‘So is Sly at home?’

The guy shook his head. ‘Police are looking for him, too.’ Nodding toward the gate. ‘Perhaps you saw the gentlemen out at the road there. But I don’t know where Mr Crow is.’

The sliding door of the Dodge was open, and a hydraulic wheelchair platform was deployed. Vincent said, ‘And who are you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, Who are you?’

‘I work for the family.’ Grinning, dropping his voice a little. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

Vincent matched the grin. ‘You can probably understand, finding Mr Crow’s sort of an urgent matter. Do you mind if I come inside for a moment, in case he’s hiding under a bed or something? Too frightened to come out?’

The guy was still grinning. Big, white teeth, tombstone-shaped. He said, ‘I already checked all those sensible places.’

Vincent said, ‘What about his friend Andre? He’s a lot smaller. He could fit in a cupboard pretty easy.’

‘Delroy, what’s he want? Where’s Andre?’