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mischaracterize both of their gaits. Tommy Flynn had the stiff, bowlegged stride of an arthritic man in need of two knee replacements. Jerry moved with the lumbering tread that had apparently earned him the nickname Sumo from the law firm’s mailroom manager, Tony Manghini.
    I was getting too old for these late-night rendezvous, I told myself. Fortunately, I’d been able to get home for dinner and had enough time to give my son Sam a bath, read him a book, and put him to bed before leaving the house to pick up Jerry. The babysitter tonight, as most nights, was my mother, who lives in the remodeled carriage house in back.
    When we reached the plaza, Tommy took a seat on a bench facing the Chouteau Tower. Jerry and I sat on the bench opposite Tommy.
    Tommy Flynn was the deliberate type, a man you don’t try to rush. And since I was here to ask him a favor, I let him take his time. I watched as he lit a Camel cigarette with a brass lighter, inhaled the smoke deeply, held it a moment, and then blew it out in a thin stream that whirled and vanished in the night breeze.
    â€œSo,” he said, “tell me about these doubts.”
    I glanced at Jerry. I’d explained to Jerry that he should try to take the lead, at least early on, since he was the one who had the relationship with Tommy Flynn.
    Jerry said, “Stanley thinks Sari was murdered.”
    â€œWhat’s he base that on?”
    â€œHe believes he found some evidence up in the garage, and he believes the police confirmed his evidence.”
    â€œHold on, Jerry.” Tommy turned to me. “Has anyone talked to the police?”
    â€œJerry and Stanley two nights ago,” I said. “I followed up yesterday.”
    â€œWho?”
    Jerry told him their names.
    Tommy frowned. “Don’t remember any Hendricks. Probably after my time. I know Harry Gibbs. You say he’s a detective now, eh?”
    Jerry said, “Yes, sir.”
    â€œ Detective Harry Gibbs.” Tommy chuckled. “Harry’s a good man, but not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. So fill me in on your meeting, Jerry.”
    Jerry told him about the broken-off heel and the tube of Blistex and the information from the police report about Sari’s wallet and her underwear and body.
    Tommy flicked away the cigarette butt, pulled a new one out of the crumpled pack, and said, “Seems consistent with a suicide.”
    He lit the cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose in twin streams, and turned to me. “What’s Stanley say?”
    â€œHe says it proves she was killed by someone who knew her.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSomeone in the law firm.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œHe doesn’t know,” I said. “None of us do. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
    Tommy’s eyebrows rose. “You think I know?”
    I smiled. “No. But I think you have access to information that might help move this forward and maybe even put Stanley’s concerns to rest.”
    â€œHold on. What else does Stanley have? Beside that heel and the Blistex?”
    â€œHe says she wasn’t depressed.”
    â€œReally? Did they talk much?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    Tommy frowned and took another drag on his cigarette. “Then how does he know she wasn’t depressed?”
    I gave him the short version of the FACS system.
    When I finished, Jerry added, “Stanley has these pictures tacked up on the wall of his cubicle. They’re kind of gross. Drawings of people’s faces, but with the skin removed and all these arrows with the names of each muscle.”
    Tommy scratched his neck and nodded. “I remember those drawings. My last year on the force they had some FBI special agent give us a lecture on that FACS thing. Crazy stuff. Stanley’s into that, eh?”
    â€œYes,” I said, “and it seems to work for him.”
    Tommy raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
    â€œYou said