She was blond, her hair clumped and curled, a mass of it on her head and falling to her shoulders—bony shoulders and thin arms. She wore a yellowish blouse of shimmering silk, opened to reveal a chunky necklace as thick as a lei, and on her skinny wrists heavy bangles. Sharkey saw the mounded hair and jewels before he saw the woman’s face. A pinched face, a half-smile, reddened glistening lips—a brittle indoor beauty, of a glamorous sort he always thought breakable.

And what he took to be a cushion or a purse on her lap under her hands was a small dog, with white fluffy fur and wicked black eyes.

“What will you have to drink?”

“No drink,” Sharkey said. “Thanks—I’m all set.”

“I was told you came for a drink.”

“Soft drink,” Sharkey said in a choked voice.

The woman spoke to the man in the dark suit, hovering in the doorway. “You heard him, Diego. Juice.”

The woman’s husband approached her, pushed a cushion aside, and sat next to her, taking one of her hands from the dog—the dog growled—but it was less a gesture of affection than something proprietorial, a way of uniting with her against Sharkey, as they faced him from across the room. When the dog growled more loudly and swelled in the woman’s lap, Sharkey stiffened and sat back in the sofa.

“So how did you know Max?” the woman asked.

“I didn’t know him.”

With a satirical smile on her red clown mouth, she giggled and said, “What are you doing here, then?”

“I came here to tell you I killed him.” Sharkey had rehearsed the words so many times it was as though he were hearing a hollow echo, and he was scarcely aware he had spoken them aloud.

But the woman had heard. Slowly a twitch animated her face, which had seemed small and unfriendly, and her pretty lips at first parted, seemed to prepare to speak, but said nothing and curled in a smile.

“Someone had to do it,” she finally said, and glanced at the man, tugging his hand, as the dog yapped twice and settled its head deeper in her lap.

The man in the dark suit and white gloves brought a tall glass on a tray to Sharkey and said, “Lemonade, sir.”

Sharkey took it but didn’t drink. He held it in both hands and said, “It was terrible. I was drunk. I crashed into him with my car. He was on a bike. It was a dark rainy night, the road was gnarly. He didn’t have a chance. He had no ID. They kept him in the morgue. I’ve spent the past two months trying to find out his identity and piece together his life.”

The woman wagged her head, jogging the curled clumps of her thick hair. She said, “What kind of bike?”