He hadn’t called back by seven. Leah was asleep, Levy was in the den watching the news; Rachel finished the dishes, went back to the sun porch and, feeling sneaky for some reason, she called his house. He answered himself. Her heart beat faster.

“Inspector Hawkins . . . Roger . . . this is Rachel Levy. Adam’s wife . . .”

“I know who you are.” His voice was cold. “What do you want?”

No hello, how’s the baby. He didn’t ask if she’d had a boy or girl.

“I just thought . . . I had a daughter, and we didn’t hear from you for so long . . . I wondered . . .”

“Don’t wonder,” he said, “ask Jacob. On second thought, don’t ask him because he won’t tell you.” He hung up and left her holding a dead phone, staring out at the snow still falling.

She didn’t know what to do. Ask Jacob, he’d said. She went into the den, but he was asleep, sitting upright with The MacNeil-­Lehrer Report going on PBS. She left the TV on to mask the quiet and went back to the porch. Something scampered in the attic. Mice, Golda said. All houses have mice.

She thought of writing to him but he didn’t have to answer and she could wait months and not hear from him. She walked back and forth across the porch. The program changed and she heard ballet music. Finally she called Queens information again and got the number for the only Moses Ableson listed. He was the right Ableson, but didn’t want to talk.

“Call me tomorrow at the precinct,” he said, “or come in. I’m there between—”

“It’s personal,” she told him.

“I don’t know what could be personal, Mrs. Levy.” He sounded wary and a little drunk. In the background Rachel heard a woman call that something was getting cold.

“You and Roger Hawkins were Adam’s friends, weren’t you?”

“The best,” Ableson said softly, “the very best.”

“I just called him and he wouldn’t talk to me, he sounded like he hated me.”