I wait a few moments, then walk out onto the street and stare across at the oak-shaded courthouse. Sifting through old legal files could take some time. I need to move my father’s car in case Mackey comes out before I’m done. When I stopped at my parents’ house to take care of the Smith & Wesson, I found that the glass in the BMW had been repaired. I gave the Maxima back to Mom, so that if anyone targeted the BMW again, it would be me, and not my mother and daughter, who took the risk. I also transferred the remaining $25,000 into the trunk of the BMW, meaning to get it back to my father before the end of the day. Climbing inside the car, I pull around the corner, call directory assistance for the number of the Examiner, and have them connect me.

“Caitlin Masters, please.”

“Ms. Masters is in a meeting. Would you like me to transfer you to her voice mail?”

“Tell her Penn Cage is on the phone.”

“Sir—”

“Please just do it.”

Thirty seconds later, Caitlin says, “You’d better not be standing me up for lunch.”

“I do need to postpone. Something’s come up.”

“What could be more important than me?”

“Actually, I was going to suggest dinner tonight.”

“Who says change is bad? Does eight o’clock work for you?”

“Yes. Thanks, Caitlin.”

“You can repay me with information.”

I hang up laughing, then lock the car and hurry into the inner square of the block. It harbors parked cars, dumpsters, and fire escapes, but thankfully no people. At the rear of Mackey’s building, eight concrete steps and a green handrail descend to a steel door. There’s no key in the lock. I go down the steps and feel beneath the crack of the door. Nothing. In the lee of the bottom step lies a broken, rust-colored brick. I bend and lift it.

The key is there.

The basement is lighted by bare hanging bulbs, and it stinks of mildew. I feel like I’m breathing fungus. What I first perceived as walls are stacks of boxes, hundreds of them, old bellied cardboard things that look like they were stolen from a grocery store trash pile. Thankfully, there are dates scrawled on them in black magic marker.

There seems to be no organizing concept. Files from the 1920s have been stacked next to files from the 1970s. I scan the wall of dates as though searching for my size in a display of blue jeans. No luck. But after twenty minutes of digging through rat droppings and dust, I find a short stack of boxes labeled ’73 fiRE.

Dragging the stack into the nearest pool of light, I open the top box and riffle through its contents. The files inside are charred, stained, and mildewed, and all date from 1966. I set that box aside and open the next one. My pulse quickens. The files inside are dated 1968.