“We’ll work it out,” I heard myself saying. “Now tell me why you looked like death when you saw Janie Ingalls’s photo?”

“Low blood sugar,” he said. “No time for breakfast.”

“Ah,” I said. “Hence the vodka.”

He shrugged. “I thought it was out of my head, but maybe I figure I should’ve pursued it.”

“Maybe ‘NS’ means someone else thinks you should pursue it now. Do any of the other photos in the book mean anything to you?”

“Nope.”

I looked at the gloves he’d discarded. “Going to run prints?”

“Maybe,” he said. Then he grimaced.

“What?”

“Ghost of failures past.”

He poured a fourth glass, mostly juice, maybe an ounce of vodka.

I said, “Any guesses who sent it?”

“Sounds like you’ve got one.”

“Your ex-partner, Schwinn. He had a fondness for photography. And access to old police files.”

“Why the hell would he be contacting me, now? He couldn’t stand me. Didn’t give a damn about the Ingalls case or any other.”

“Maybe time has mellowed him. He worked Homicide for twenty years before you came on. Meaning he’d have been on the job during much of the period covered by the photos. The ones that preceded his watch, he swiped. He bent the rules, so lifting a few crime-scene photos wouldn’t have been much of an ethical stretch. The book could be part of a collection he assembled over the years. He called it the murder book and bound it in blue, to be cute.”

“But why send it to me via you? Why now? What’s his damn point?”

“Is Janie’s picture one Schwinn could’ve snapped himself?”

Peeling on a new pair of gloves, he flipped back to the death shot.

“Nah, this is professionally developed, better quality than what he’d have gotten with that Instamatic.”

“Maybe he had the film reprocessed. Or if he’s still a photography bug, he’s got himself a home darkroom.”

“Schwinn,” he said. “Screw all this hypothesizing, Alex. The guy didn’t trust me when we worked together. Why would he be contacting me?”

“What if he learned something twenty years ago that he’s finally ready to share? Such as the source that directed him to Bowie Ingalls and the party. Maybe he feels guilty about holding back, has the urge to come clean. By now, he’d be close to seventy, could be sick or dying. Or just introspective—age can do that. He knows he’s in no position to do anything about the case but figures you might be.”

He thought about that. Degloved again, stood, stared at the fridge but didn’t move. “We can spin theories all day, but the book could’ve been sent by anyone.”