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Lessing's shoulder. "Stoner, I'm sorry."
    "It's all right," I said. And like that I was out of it.
    I walked back down the hall, through the living room filled with murmuring mourners, into the blistering night. I looked back once from the street at the Lessing house, lit at every window. I felt sorry for Trumaine, for having to hold it all together. I felt sorry for Meg Lessing, for the way I'd hurt her. I felt sorry for the pretty wife. And for Lessing himself, for the terrible thing that had happened to him. But I couldn't say that I felt sorry that it wasn't my case. In fact, it had all unfolded so quickly that I hadn't really begun to think of it as a case. It seemed more like an accident that I had somehow been caught up in. And now it was police business. Now it was over.
 
 
    7
    I was curious enough to follow the Lessing case in the papers and on TV for the next few days, but not curious enough to do any investigating. I did call Art Finch at the CPD to tell him about the checks I'd left with Dr. Kingston -at the Lighthouse. A couple of times I toyed with the idea of calling Trumaine, but thought better of it. He had his hands full already.
    According to the media, there weren't any fresh leads, although the Lessing name guaranteed the front page of the Enquirer two days running and drew a lugubrious moral from a local TV anchorman whose specialty was excursions into the vale of, tears. When nothing new broke on the third day, the story was moved to the local section of the papers. On the fourth day it dropped off the tube like pie from a plate. On the morning of the fifth day, Sunday, Len Trumaine called me at my new apartment on Ohio Avenue three rooms on a first floor, with exposed brick walls and a bay window looking out on a bleak, crowded street.
    Len sounded flustered, as if he hadn't quite figured out what to say if I answered the phone. "You think we could meet this afternoon, Harry? I mean if you're still willing to talk to me after that scene with Meg."
    "Mrs. Lessing was right, Len. I didn't belong there."
    "She was very upset," Trumaine said quickly. "She's still upset -with the cops and with me."
    "Why you?"
    "She thinks I'm not riding the police hard enough not getting results."
    "Then they haven't made any progress?"
    "If they have, they're not telling me," he said miserably. "The family's posted a reward for information. And Don Geneva is organizing a citizens' group to help search for Ira. In fact, he's taken on the job of handling most of the public relations for this thing you know, fending off the press. It's a relief, believe me."
    "How's Janey taking it? Is she any better?"
    Trumaine sighed. "She's stopped screaming, if that's what you mean. She's been holding her breath since Tuesday night. I don't know how much longer she can keep it in. I think she's made up her mind that Ira is dead. It really irritates Meg, who is just as convinced that he's still alive -that the police are concealing evidence, that the blood from the car is someone else's blood, that Ira has . . . I don't know, gone into hiding or something. She's pretty confused on the subject. I guess the truth is she just can't accept the possibility ,that he might be . . . gone."
    "How can I help?" I said.
    "Have a drink with me. And I'll tell you."
 
 
    Around one that afternoon I drove over to Mike Fink's, one of the many riverboats-turned-restaurant moored on the Kentucky side of the river. When I arrived, Trumaine was sitting at a topside table in the striped shade of a red-and-white awning. Although he wasn't wearing the blue polo shirt, he still looked pinched and peaked by his summer shirt and golfer's slacks, but then he was the sort of man whose clothes would always look a half size too small or too large.
    Out on the water, cruisers filled with sleek young partyers roared by, trailing a racket of loud laughter in their wakes. Trumaine stared after them resentfully, as if he'd forgotten how to laugh.
    "They should police