We followed Marlene Baldassar under a rear staircase, where she pushed a door marked EXIT and let us pass through to an alley behind the building. Two Dumpsters were pushed against a cinder-block wall. Nearby stood a chesty girl with her elbows to the block, hips thrust at a tall, buzz-cut boy wearing low pants that puddled around his unlaced sneakers. He looked like a scarecrow about to come apart. Moved in for a kiss but stopped as the girl said something, turned and frowned.

Baldassar said, “Hi, guys.” Expressionless, the couple ambled off and disappeared around a corner.

“Somethingus interruptus,” said Baldassar. “I almost feel guilty.”

Power lines were strung ten feet above the wall, and I could hear them buzzing. A pigeon soared overhead. Baldassar lit up, dragged hungrily, smoked down a half inch of her cigarette.

“Is there any chance we can talk confidentially?” she said.

“I’d like to promise you that,” said Milo. “But if you’ve got knowledge of a crime—”

“No, it’s nothing like that. And I never met the Cossack girl, though I do know that she was once a resident. But in terms of her family . . . let’s just say they’re not very popular around here.”

“Why’s that, ma’am?”

Baldassar smoked and shook her head. “I suppose if you dug around enough, you’d find out, anyway.”

“Where should I be digging?”

“What, I should do your job for you?”

“I’ll take anything I can get, ma’am,” said Milo.

She smiled. “County records. I’ll tell you what I know, but I can’t have any of it traced back to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m trusting you, Detective.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And no more ma’ams please,” she said. “I’m starting to feel like I’m in some old Dragnet script.”

“Fair enough, Ms—”

Baldassar cut him off with a wave of her cigarette. “To make a long story exquisitely short, several years ago—seventeen or eighteen years ago, Achievement House ran into some severe financial problems due to bad investments. The board was comprised of stuffy old farts who were conservative with their personal fortunes but turned out to be a good deal more adventurous with Achievement House’s endowment. Remember all that junk-bond foolishness? The board hired a money manager who traded Achievement House’s blue chips for a whole slew of what ended up as worthless paper. At the time, the interest rates were enticing, and the income allowed the school to run at such a high paper profit that the board was starting to think Achievement House would pay for itself. Then everything crashed. And to make matters worse, the manager had taken out a second mortgage and bought additional bonds on margin. When everything hit the fan, Achievement House was way in the hole and facing foreclosure on the property.”

“The rich old farts would’ve let that happen?”