We were far enough uptown that the city was quiet, and the sky seemed bigger than was sane. The tenement on 172nd Street was in better shape than when I had seen it last. The stoop was stained, but not filthy. The windows were grimy, but unbroken. A brick propped open the front door. I followed Virgil up the stairs.

The apartment on the top floor was locked. I didn’t bother knocking. I opened my burglar’s kit and went to work. Virgil stopped me with a rough, heavy hand.

“My daughter is no housebreaker,” he said.

“I’m not your daughter.”

He reached for his skeleton key. Before he could get it, I opened the door. Virgil tried not to look impressed.

“How are you sure it’s this apartment?”

“I see one rather persuasive clue.”

In the corner of the immaculate room, a bundle of bones sat wrapped in a rocking chair, staring out the window at the early morning sky.

“Mr. Van Alen,” said Virgil, sweeping his hat off his head. “I haven’t seen him since I was a boy.”

“He was bigger then?”

“Like an oak. A drunk, savage oak.”

Virgil knelt in front of Van Alen’s father and failed to catch his eye. I leaned by the window, pistol at my side, and waited for the lady of the house to come home.

“For god’s sake, Gilda, put that gun away.”

“You don’t think we’ll need it?”

“I’ve known these people since I was a child.”

“And now you’ve come to arrest their son.”

“Put it away, or I’ll have you wait in the street.”

“You can’t tell me where to go.” I tried to say it like I was an adult, not a brat pitching a tantrum. It didn’t quite work. Virgil stared me down, and the gun went back in the bag.

When the door opened, Mrs. Van Alen withheld her surprise. She set a bag of groceries on the table and hung her hat by the door. Without turning, she said, “Clubber Carr, you beast, what are you doing in my home?”

“We’re looking for your son,” I said.

“He hasn’t lived here for years.”

“He doesn’t visit?”

“Why should he? A grown man cannot be expected to pay such respect to his parents. Especially a great businessman like my son.”

“Please, Mrs. Van Alen,” said Virgil. “We don’t want to hurt him. We just want to talk.”