It was early afternoon when they began, so most of the interviewees were stay-at-home moms, pensioned elders, and those who worked at home. Only a few were worthy of discussion. One had written off her parents because they had refused to pay for her child’s schooling. Another had stopped talking to her widowed father, citing him as a hopeless drunk, her mother having passed when she was a teen.

“If anything, I should be killing him,” she told Grant. Then she burst into tears realizing what she’d said and he’d spent ten more minutes consoling her.

As evening rolled around, the work force returned to 988 Eighth Avenue, surprised to find policemen from two different countries occupying the public spaces in their building. The majority dutifully submitted to interviews with Grant and Frankel. To a person, they only had glowing things to say about their parents. By the time Frankel and Grant called it a night, they were convinced they’d been run ragged by a killer who must have been laughing himself silly.

Before leaving, they sat again with Tompkins to figure out how many tenants they still needed to reach. They’d made a sizeable dent and were down to fewer than a dozen. The super said he’d check on who was out of town and provide numbers for the rest.

On the way out, Frankel handed Grant a copy of the remaining list, which they divided in half. “Feel free to call them from your hotel or the precinct in the morning. Want to meet around eleven to see where we end up?”

Grant was so tired he could barely manage a nod.

The only place he wanted to end up was back home in Maida Vale with his head buried under a pillow until the new year.

“It isn’t necessarily an address,” said Everett.

Grant repressed a sigh. It wasn’t like that hadn’t already occurred to him, but it was painful hearing it spoken aloud. Especially after ten hours at 988 Eighth Avenue.

“At least it’s a place to start,” Grant told his brother.

Everett had left two messages asking Grant to call him back whenever he returned to the hotel; never mind the time change. He wasn’t surprised. His sibling was a self-pronounced insomniac and often worked into the wee hours.

“It could be an invoice number,” added Grant. “Coordinates on a map we’re not getting?” He threw up his hands, frustrated. “The possibilities are endless.”

“Did you consider it being a date?” Everett asked.

It had floated through his mind briefly, but that would translate to September 8, 1988—and three decades seemed like an eternity in these days of instant gratification and social media. He said as much to Everett but made a mental note to look into it later.