She covered the phone, but I heard muffled voices. She was asking. My chest filled with a growing pressure, and I didn't like that she had to ask because asking meant maybe it was.

"Is it Pike?"

"No, this isn't Pike. This man has tattoos, but not like that. I'm sorry if I scared you that way. Listen, we can send a car."

I closed my eyes, letting the pressure fade.

"I don't know anything about it. What makes you think I know?"

"The victim said some things before he died. Come down and take a look. I'll send a car."

"Am I a suspect?"

"Nothing like that. We just want to see if you can help with the ID."

"What was your name?"

"Diaz-"

"Okay, Diaz-it's four in the morning, I haven't slept in two months, and I'm not in the mood. If you think I know this guy, then you think I'm a suspect. Everyone who knows a homicide victim is a suspect until they're cleared, so just tell me who you got and ask whatever it is you want to ask."

"What it is, we have a deceased Anglo male we believe to be the victim of a robbery. They got his wallet, so I can't give you a name. We're hoping you can help with that part. Here, listen -"

"Why do you think I know him?"

She plowed on with the description as if I hadn't spoken.

"Anglo male, dyed black hair thin on top, brown eyes, approximately seventy years but he could be older, I guess, and he has crucifix tattoos on both palms."

"Why do you think I know him?"

"He has more tats of a religious nature on his arms-Jesus, the Virgin, things like that. None of this sounds familiar?"

"I don't have any idea who you're talking about."

"What we have is a deceased male as I've described, one gunshot to the chest. By his appearance and location, he appears indigent, but we're working on that. I'm the officer who found him. He was still conscious at that time and said things that suggested you would recognize his description."

"I don't."

"Look, Cole, I'm not trying to be difficult. It would be better if -"

"What did he say?"

Diaz didn't answer right away.

"He told me he was your father."

I sat without moving in my dark house. I had started that night in bed, but ended on the couch, hoping the steady patter of rain would quiet my heart, but sleep had not come.

"Just like that, he told you he was my father."

"I tried to get a statement, but all he said was something about you being his son, and then he passed. You're the same Elvis Cole they wrote the stories about, aren't you? In the Times?"

"Yes."

"He had the clippings. I figured you would recognize the tats if you knew him, me thinking he was your father, but it sounds like you don't."