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with you, not be here alone.“
    „He's dangerous, this—what did you say his name was?“
    „He's used a variety of street names. When he called it in, he told the responding officers his name was Parker Bowling. But he's also been known as Dick Parker, Richard Lee Bowling and Parker Lee.“
    „Is he a suspect?“
    „There's been no crime.“
    The door upstairs closed. We heard the cylinder turn over, the security chain go on.
    „I'm just letting you know that he's not a trustworthy individual, Mrs. Alexander. That's all I'm saying.“
    „It's Ms.,“ I told him, regretting it immediately. He'd been fishing and I'd taken the bait.
    „Alexander's not your married name?“ Glancing at the hand holding the leash.
    „You said 'he called it in/ Detective. You mean the accident? Does that mean he was here when it happened?“
    „Actually, no. He claims he went out early to meet a friend. When he came home a few hours later, he found Tim and called 911.“
    „He must have been pretty upset.“
    Brody nodded. „Yes, ma'am. Who wouldn't be?“
    „Was he ... ?“
    Brody didn't seem to be listening. He reached into his pocket and took out a card, pulling out a pen and writing something on the back of it.
    He was bigger than me, somewhat taller, lots more muscular, his jacket a little tight in the shoulders. I could see where his holster was, pushing at the fabric from underneath. Jacket and tie, I thought, even in the heat of summer. His neck was wide, but not like a football player's. His hair was a mousy shade of brown, cut short, standing up straight like newly mowed grass. When he looked up, I saw that his eyes were brown, but not that deep, dark brown that looks almost black. His were a more washed-out shade, like the freckles some dogs have on their chests and paws, but with flecks of green in it. Old eyes, older than the man. And there was gray at his temples, too, though he looked to be in his mid-forties, and gray in his whisk-broom mustache, trimmed neatly above the line of his mouth.
    „I can be here with you when you decide to let Mr. Bowling come to collect his things.“ Very businesslike now. „If you'd rather not be here alone.“
    „I wouldn't be,“ I said.
    He raised his eyebrows.
    „I'll have Dashiell.“
    I looked down. Dashiell looked up and wagged his tail. Then he looked at the door to O'Fallon's apartment. I felt the same way. The hallway was starting to feel too small for two people and a large dog. There was no air circulating and the round fluorescent ceiling light made everything appear slightly green. Even Dashiell looked sickly in O'Fallon's hallway. Besides, if I was going to do this, I wanted to get started. I bent and began to unhook Dashiell's leash.
    „Is this okay?“ I asked.
    „As long as he doesn't disturb anything.“
    „He won't,“ I told him, wondering what there was that Dashiell might disturb.
    „How much time do I have today?“
    „Whatever you need,“ he said, unlocking the door, both locks with the same key, and pushing it open. That was a New York trick—two locks to deter a would-be thief, only one key to carry. Brody stepped out of the way to let me go in first, but of course it was Dashiell who rushed ahead, walking onto the faded Oriental rug and stopping cold a moment later, his mouth open, swallowing the air.
    I tasted the air, too. Something like Lysol. Whatever it was, it was overwhelming, used, I was sure, to mask another odor. Still, that was underneath the chemical smell, something metallic and gamy, a smell that brought the food I'd eaten a couple of hours earlier back up to my throat. I thought I could smell smoke, too, the stale odor you get in a place where someone has a long-term habit, or after a politically incorrect party, everything monitored nowadays, even your bad habits. I could see a few ashtrays from where I stood, emptied but not washed. But the odor was faint and I wasn't sure that was the source of the smell. It might have come from