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valedictorian of his class! But then his father was a genius, wasn’t he?”
    I asked, “What do you mean, ‘once a year, always in a different way?’”
    She was looking past me at the wall of pictures. Fingers that were still slender, graceful, traced memories in the air.
    â€œThere Nicholas would be,” she said, “looking so proud, in the audience at a concert, or a ball game, or a school play. I think Nick gets his artistic talent from me, if that doesn’t sound too stuck up and, best of all, Nicholas came to graduation and heard his son speak.”
    Velda asked, “Did they ever meet?”
    â€œNo.” She pointed. “Did you notice that picture? That very first one, high up, at the left?”
    A solemn portrait of a kid in army green preceded the first of several baby photos.
    â€œThat’s a young man who died in Vietnam,” she said. “Mr. Simmons, the attorney, provided me with that and other photos, as well as documents. His name was Edwin Burrows and we never met. He was an only child with no immediate family. He won several medals, actually, including a Silver Star, and that was the father that Nick grew up proud of.”
    I asked, “No suspicions?”
    â€œWhy should he be suspicious? When he was younger, Nick was very proud of having such an heroic father.”
    â€œOnly when he was younger?”
    â€œWell … you know boys. They grow out of these things.”
    Not really, but I let it pass.
    â€œMrs. Burrows,” I said, sitting forward, “have you received anything, perhaps in the mail, that might seem to have come from Don Giraldi?”
    â€œNo …”
    â€œSpecifically, a ledger. A book.”
    Her eyes were guileless. “No,” she said. “No. After Mr. Simmons died, and his visits ended, another lawyer came around, just once. I was given a generous amount of money and told I was now on my own. And there’s a trust fund for Nick that becomes his on his graduation from NYU.”
    â€œHave you talked to your son recently?”
    She nodded. “We talk on the phone at least once a week. Why, I spoke to him just yesterday.”
    â€œDid he say anything about receiving a ledger from his father?”
    â€œMr. Hammer, no. As I thought I made clear, as far as Nick is concerned his father is a Vietnam war hero named Edwin Burrows.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “Now listen carefully.”
    And I told her about the book.
    She might be a suburban hausfrau now, but she had once been the mistress of a mob boss. She followed me easily, occasionally nodding, never interrupting.
    â€œYou are on the very short list,” I said, “of people who Don Giraldi valued and trusted. You might still receive that book. And it’s possible some very bad people might come looking for it.”
    She shook her head, mousy brown curls bouncing. “Doesn’t seem possible … after all these years. I thought I was safe … I thought Nick was safe.”
    â€œYou raise the most pertinent point. I think your son is the logical person the don may have sent that book.”
    She frowned in concern, but said nothing.
    I went on: “I want you to do two things, Mrs. Burrows, and I don’t want any argument. I want you to let us stow you away in a safe-house motel we use upstate. Until this is over. You have a car? Velda will drive you in it, and stay with you till I give the word. Just quickly pack a bag.”
    She swallowed and nodded. “And the other thing?”
    â€œI want you to call your son right now,” I said, “and tell him I’m coming to visit him. I’ll talk to him briefly myself, so that he’ll know my voice. I’ll come alone. If more than one person shows up at his door, even if one of them claims to be me, he’s not to let them in. If that happens, he’s to get out and get away, as fast as he can. Is all of that clear?”
    She wore