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The decision of the dreary gray morning: Buttonhole Lenny Herzog or go patrolling the byways of town searching for knuckleheads? Herzog could keep for another day.

Ted called as I sat in the hotel restaurant sipping a second cup of coffee; Buffalo detective Rod Griese waited on the line. Ted patched him through and we chatted. Griese put the T in terse. Stated upfront this was a courtesy, nothing more because there wasn’t anything to tell. He’d obeyed Adeyemi’s strict instructions to avoid the Pruitts unless he discovered anything contrary to the police report, which, due to the infancy of his investigation, he had not. No sense riling Mom or Dad, et cetera, et cetera.

Griese worked on the case for two weeks, mostly by phone. Phase two mirrored my own activities; he visited Horseheads and interviewed several people. The second night, while unwinding at a bar, he scuffled with a guy over a spilled drink. No biggie, or so he assumed. Later, he was crossing the street when a car with its lights off blindsided him. Busted both legs. The driver made a clean getaway. End of detective career, end of story. His new gig as a realtor was boring and safe. Griese said good luck and goodbye.

Onward then.

Boss Man’s list of Mares of Thrace members comprised three locations, rather than names. A bakery, a beauty parlor, and an electronics warehouse. The bakery was a burned shell. Somebody left an oven on and poof. Nobody at the warehouse knew anything except that the security guy came in much later. Finally, I asked around at the corner beauty parlor. Forty bucks and a convivial manner secured intelligence on the retired beautician, Nancy. The guy on duty warned me that Nancy was flakier than Grandma’s pie crust. I declined the offer of a manicure.

Nancy the Beautician lived in a public housing community not far from a park with a small pond at its center. A spiffy paved walkway encircled the pond. Couples in winter gear strolled, some pushing baby carriages, some walking their dogs. Many of the dogs were decked out in classy sweaters. Hardier people power-walked the circle. Others had the superior idea—they loitered on benches, watching the water, or tossing crumbs to the marauding gangs of pigeons. Nancy the Beautician sat at the end of one such bench while the pigeons strutted around her ankles, fruitlessly appealing for a handout. She was a petite woman, silvery wisps of hair plucked from beneath her shawl by the chilly breeze. Somewhere between a matron and a grandmother. She wore a wool coat. I’d last seen her in a cheerleader uniform in the company of a smarmy middle-aged upperclassman. Her mien wasn’t a pallid flat-affect mask today. Her cheeks were rosy and she smiled at me with human warmth rather than the reflexive jaw movements of a predatory animal.

“Hi, Nancy,” I said.

“Darn it. You found me.” She didn’t register any familiarity, nor was she alarmed by the approach of a large, dark man. “Your hair is lovely. So thick and lustrous. It isn’t even graying. White people have to sacrifice their firstborn to get hair like yours! You’ll keep it until you’re very, very old.”