“I don’t know how long this is going to take,” Ted said. “I’ll call again when I’m done.”

“I’ll be at the courthouse.” Cell phone use was restricted in parts of the building. “If I don’t answer, I’ll get you right back.”

The Preacher was waiting on the corner of 113th Street. Ted was five minutes early.

“I told my people you mean no harm to this woman you seek. I hope that is the truth.”

“Usually the people I am looking for are very happy when I find them.”

“Come with me.” He led the way down Roosevelt Avenue to a pizza joint that also offered Mexican food. The breakfast rush was long over, and the staff behind the counter was getting ready for lunch. A thin brown-skinned man with multicolored tattoos running down both arms reached across and vigorously shook the Preacher’s hand before giving Ted a skeptical look.

The Preacher raised both hands, palms out. “I am here as this man’s guide. You do me honor to hear him speak.”

Ted introduced himself. “I won’t take much of your time. I’m looking for an older woman. A local landlord named Barbara Miller. I don’t know if she lives around here or just owned property.”

“Miss Miller is good people, yo. What you want to bother her?” The man talked in a full-speed, overanimated fashion, like a late-night TV shill for Ginsu knives or the Hurricane Spin Mop.

“You’re a friend?” Ted said. “Then you’ll understand that I have to respect her privacy.”

“She’s my landlord. Not for the business. My apartment.”

New Yorkers rarely evinced positive feelings for their landlords.

“She must be special,” Ted said.

“She takes care of her buildings. She got a management company that does all that, but she tells ’em to do it right. Something breaks? They fix it. Like, yesterday. No lie.”

“How would I find her?”

“I can give you the management company.”

“That’s a start,” Ted said.

The man checked his cell phone and rattled off a number. “They’re in Brooklyn.”

“But you don’t know where I might find her?”

“Like where she lives? I don’t know. I mean she’s here in the neighborhood. Or she was. She gets the sopa de lima sometimes. To go. I ain’t seen her, though, in a long time.”

“Months? Years?”

He thought about it. “More than a year. She liked to shop in the neighborhood.” He turned to the Preacher. “You gonna take him to Manny’s?”

“Manny has the fruit market down the block,” the Preacher explained. “We’ll go there next.”

“Yeah, you talk to Manny,” the counterman said. “She in trouble?”

“I hope not,” Ted said. “She’s owed some money, and I’m trying to get it to her. That’s all I know.”

“What are you, then? Like an angel or something?”

“Something.”