The second game went just as quickly, and the Giants lost badly. The only entertainment came in the fifth, when a deranged fan whipped a soda bottle at home plate, just missing the Boston catcher. The crowd howled for blood at this offense to good sportsmanship, but I understood how he felt. I only wish I’d thought of it first.

I fled after that, leaving the ballpark to those naive enough to hope for miracles, and rode downtown in a deserted elevated car.

I smelled my father’s rancid cologne in the hallway, but his office was empty. In the kitchen, I found Hellida kneading a loaf of bread, pressing into it like she was trying to drive her fists through the table.

“And where,” I asked, “is the great detective? Because he certainly isn’t at the Polo Grounds.”

She just kept kneading. Her eyes were fixed on the chipped white bowl beside the oven, where she kept her rings when she was making bread. In there, along with Hellida’s three silver bands, was my father’s ring.

“He’ll be back for dinner,” she said. “I’m sure.”

It took two days before we were convinced he was really missing, that it wasn’t just a bender or a new avenue of investigation in his ever-expanding, unsolvable case. After a week, everyone but Hellida gave up hope. “The Westside took him,” she said, “and it could give him back.” I could not accept that consolation. I assumed my father died a drunk’s death—that he stumbled in front of a subway car, or slipped and drowned in the river. Perhaps he killed himself. He had every reason to. The Sentinel’s report of the doubleheader captured none of that, but I saw my father’s disappearance in the box score.

I rapped Virgil’s ring on the table and blew the candle out. I fell asleep wondering: Had the shadows taken Virgil Carr—and could I get him back?

Six

My dreams were terrifying and indistinct. Images of bullets lodged in my heart, two mangled skulls, bleeding hands, and a shadow cast by a ship that couldn’t exist. An army of ghouls with fire in their eyes, slouching up a wide white street. I ran slower and slower, until I felt dead breath on my neck, and cold crushed my heart.

I awoke before dawn, tangled in sweaty sheets, shivering and overheated all at once. In the light of day, it was so tempting to dismiss the prior evening as one long fever dream. Forget the death of Virgil Carr. Let the dancing shadows take care of themselves. Buckle down and wonder why Fournier’s killer had torched the storehouse. Wonder where that liquor came from and who might have killed to stop it from going any farther. These were big questions—deadly questions—but compared to hungry shadows and people made of white smoke, they were tiny indeed.