“She knew I needed help, not mystery. She lost her husband so long ago, but she believes that someday he will come back to her. She helped me believe it, too.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it now?”

“Even children know it, Miss Tarbell, so I’ll say it simple, like I’m speaking to a child. People don’t come back from the dead.”

“One man did, once.”

“Maybe. But that was some time ago.”

“In a city where water springs up from concrete and trees grow taller than the spire of Trinity Church, why couldn’t it happen again?”

This woman’s skin was thin enough that I could see her skull. Her smile was as fragile as bone china. I felt an urge to shatter her. Instead I excused myself and stepped into the long hallway, dabbing my forehead with my wrist, wondering how anyone could be taken in by such idiocy. A Westsider should know better. The dead do not return; grief does not subside. Our memories fade, until those we loved are no more real than paper saints on a wall.

“How are you finding the winter?” I heard Lamb ask her.

“It’s hard without Tom. But Van Alen’s guards bring food and coal, and the life insurance money should come through soon. When I get that check, I’ll be going back to Ireland and sailing in style.”

When he emerged from her room, I was already halfway down the hallway, making for the short flight of icy steps that led back to the tundra of Seventh Avenue. When Lamb caught up with me, he grabbed me by the elbow hard enough that I had to work not to slip.

“You should have some goddamned sympathy,” he said. “That woman’s hurting and you made fun.”

“We all hurt. That’s no excuse for her wasting my time.”

“Since when does the detective of tiny mysteries care about wasting time?”

We walked down to Sixth Avenue, him grumbling about the transformative nature of faith, of prayer, of understanding, and me trying to understand why an impoverished widow’s simple story had driven me so quickly to rage. In the shadow of Jefferson Market Court, whose multicolored shingles rose like a rainbow over the rank snow, I tried to atone.

“I’m sorry,” I said, finally. “It was rude to point out that what she believes is stupid.”

“That’s a pathetic apology.”

“Right now, pathetic is the best I can muster. This case has worn me thin.”

“The next time you run out of ideas, bother someone else.”

“Any suggestions?”

He pointed south. Past the snow, past the refuse, past the broken buildings and a half mile of buckled sidewalk, towering white trees bent against the wind.

“You want to understand the Byrds?” he said. “Get ’em to take you in there. Take a look at their first church. Make ’em tell you about the day their baby brother died.”