When I got home from dropping off Gemma-Kate I found Carlo unloading the dishwasher. I went into my office to use Google Earth to locate the address where Jerry No-Last-Name was living and who owned it. Then I poured myself the last of the wine, sat on one of the counter stools, and enjoyed watching Carlo scrub some food off the stovetop. It’s important for philosophers to engage in something physical now and then.

“You were very kind to give Jerry dinner,” he said, breaking our companionable silence. “I don’t necessarily agree with you about his being mean. He seems to be more of a loner, and a little lonely. Very much on edge.”

“When you invited him, did you tell him to bring a date?”

“Just as you asked me to.”

“He didn’t.”

“I suppose he doesn’t have someone to ask. New in town and all that.”

“He lives with someone,” I said. “A woman.”

“How do you know this?”

“I got his address and looked it up. The house is owned by Gloria Bentham. Did he mention her?”

Carlo frowned and shook his head.

“Interesting that he came to dinner by himself. Why would he accept an invitation to dinner without at least mentioning her? Or mention her at least one time during the evening?”

“Maybe she’s a relative. Or maybe he’s renting a room.”

I asked him if he had formed any opinion about Jerry No-Last-Name.

“He seems like an average man, no better no worse. Jumpy, though. Intense. Perhaps a little socially inept. And he thinks J. K. Rowling is a man. I wouldn’t think you’d have to be particularly culturally literate…”

I took the utensil container out of the washer, set it on the counter, and started putting the knives and forks away. If there were any prints on Jerry’s, they might have survived the washing, but not the rubbing I saw him give them.

Kitchen tidied, Carlo turned all the living room and kitchen lights out, put on his red astronomy goggles, and headed back into the darkness of the backyard. I followed him by the glow of his special flashlight that also shone red, picking my way carefully around the chaise lounges on the patio.

“That tune he was humming,” I said. “Did you hear it?”

“I did,” Carlo said, his mind on keying star coordinates into his GPS, which made the scope turn slowly with a burrrring sound.

“It sounds familiar, but I don’t know the name of it.”

“Neither do I.”

“I thought you might. He didn’t hang around long to look at the stars.”