I turned to S. Here at first it appeared I would have more luck: between Lloyd A. Shreves, of Burlingame, and George Shrom of San Mateo, there were two Shrivers, but neither was the one I wanted. They were Kenneth C. and Robert G., and not Daniel. Briefly I thought of turning to the Cs, but I remembered that the guest lecturer, a.k.a. Amanda Payard, had said that MC was not a person but a place.

Well, I thought, closing the phone book and returning it to its shelf, I had not expected to learn anything anyway. Surely real investigators did not do their work through the phone book.

Moodily, and more out of restlessness than hunger, I opened the cupboard and took out an opened bag of gingersnaps. I put a handful on a plate, poured myself a glass of milk, and removed the whole arrangement to the bedroom, where I propped myself up on pillows, balanced the plate of cookies on my chest, and began to read my book.

I could feel, distinctly, as I tried to orient myself within the pages, a whole host of competing thoughts pressing in, but I held firm. A man must rest, despite the greater project.

A storm had moved in overnight in our detective’s personal corner of Sweden. A press conference had gone poorly, and someone in the police department had leaked sensitive information about the nature of the crime to the local TV news. Things on the personal front were no more promising; the young and attractive new public prosecutor had turned out to be married, and there had been no word from the ex-wife in the wake of their dinner.

It was easily recognizable to me as one of those little interludes in books like these where there was no discernible advancement in the investigation, but instead we sidle up to the detective in a quiet moment. It was a melancholic evening for him, alone in his apartment, the winter wind buffeting the windows, his only companions a bottle of whiskey and a recording of Aida.

The gingersnaps were stale, there was no denying it, but dipping them in milk made them softer and more palatable. When I’d finished them, and the milk, I read a few pages more, until the words began to swim before my eyes, and I turned the light off and went to sleep.

16

I did not allow myself to think of the investigation again until I was in the break room the next morning, a cup of coffee steaming in front of me. I had risen early and felt rested, and not even the sight of the red-and-yellow box of candy, haphazardly stuffed into a trash can otherwise full of empty beer bottles and a pizza box, could dampen my spirits. There would have been some kind of happy hour the night before, I deduced.