The fence went up without debate, without warning, without ceremony. The Westside went to sleep and awoke behind quarantine. Thirteen miles of fence sprung up down the middle of Broadway, a tourniquet on a limb that had already lost too much blood. At first it was wood, but wood was soon replaced by iron, steel, and barbed wire. As far as New York was concerned, the Westside no longer existed—and neither did the fifty or sixty thousand too brave or mad or desperate to flee, who stayed behind the fence, intent on living their lives.

After the fence went up, the vanishings slowed, and Europe gave us a war that could kill tens of thousands, not in a decade, but in an hour. The world forgot the Westside, but the Westside hasn’t gone anywhere. It is fat on the bottom and skinny on top, bending with Broadway all the way to the island’s top, where it is only a few blocks wide. It breeds New York’s finest painters, killers, poets, and thieves, and I am proud to be among their number. In what other city do the trees outclass the skyscrapers? Where else do rivers flow where streets used to be? And who would not love a city without guns or automobiles or coal-belching machinery? It is a strange place, insistently wild, and I love it. It reminds me of my father. It reminds me of me.

And if you ask us, if you ask me, what happened, what claimed all those innocent lives? I will tell you that when tragedy strikes, only fools or cowards expect a simple explanation. I know better than to ask questions that don’t have answers, because those kinds of questions drive men mad.

And the Westside has enough madness as it is.

A few days earlier, I stared out the window of a shabby Turtle Bay apartment house, a cramped two bedroom whose saving grace was a window that offered a fragment of the East River. I watched the traffic on a river burdened with far too much shipping. A navy ship bore down on a tug that did not look nimble enough to get out of the way. Just before impact, the rattle of bone china on saucers drew me back into the room. Edith Copeland emerged from the kitchen, in a severe white dress grown sallow from too many washings, gripping an overflowing tray of tea and cakes. She slammed it down on the coffee table. Tea sloshed from the cups, and she glanced at me with a practiced look of silent apology.

“Quite an assortment,” I said, picking my way through madeleines and lemon squares to find my teacup.

“We rarely receive visitors.”

“This is not a social call. Don’t pretend we are friends.”

“But everyone likes cakes . . .”

“Why are you so nervous, Mrs. Copeland?”

“I’ve never hired a private investigator before.”

“Everyone has to start sometime.”