The actual museum was a towering edifice of pink and black granite; the offices across the street much more utilitarian. They walked into a tiny lobby secured by a guard, Webster showing his badge, Rina writing down their names on the sign-in sheet. The sentry radioed their arrival through a walkie-talkie, and a minute later a fifties-plus, pencil-thin woman came through the parted doors of one of the four elevators. Dressed in a sheath of black, she had startling blue eyes and her head was a nest of inky, short curls. She could have been Rina’s much older sister. She kissed Rina’s cheek.

“How are you doing, darling? Your husband must be going crazy with those awful murders.”

“Yes, it is awful. That’s one of the reasons why we’re here. This is Detective Tom Webster. He needs information.”

The woman gave him her hand. “Did we ever meet before?”

Her Long Island accent was as broad as a put-on.

Webster said, “I don’t b’lieve—”

“Yes we did, yes, we did.” She tapped her head with long, red, manicured nails. “But it wasn’t in a professional capacity. It was at…” Again, she tapped her head. “Wait, wait…Baja Mexico, the fast-food joint, not the country. Your son ordered a chicken fajita grande and shared it with my grandson, who ordered that vegetarian burrito. Your wife was very pregnant. That must have been like…seven, eight months ago at one of those car rallies in B.H.” She jabbed the elevator button. “What’d she have—boy or girl?”

Webster stared at her. “Uh, a girl—”

“Oh, how wonderful! She got her girl. She really wanted a daughter, but didn’t say anything to you because she didn’t want to upset you in case she had another boy. Tell her congratulations.”

Webster was struck silent. The elevator doors opened and they all stepped inside. As soon as they closed, the woman smiled, showing white teeth. “Did I say my name? Kate Mandelbaum. What was your wife’s name? Karen?”

“Carrie.”

“That’s right. And don’t look so concerned about not remembering me. I make it a practice to memorize people. It comes in handy in my line of work.”

They got out on the third floor. Kate took them down a long corridor, her buttocks swaying because she was marching in ultra-high heels. As soon as she got into her office, she pressed the blinking message-machine button and listened while sorting through a stack of written phone numbers.

“Hi, Kate—”

She disposed of that message.

“Hey, Katie—”

Fast-forwarded through that one.

“Kate, it’s Neil. I was wondering if you could take on the Farkas file—”

“No, I cannot!” She erased that one.

“Hi, Grandma. It’s me…Reuven. I was wondering if you could come to my school for Grandparents’ Day. I’m gonna be in the choir, too. But I don’t have a solo. Call me back at—”