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desk like that?”
    She shook her head. “Someone else did.”
    â€œWho?”
    She took a breath. “He was here a couple of hours ago. I came back to get some of my things and he came walking out of the apartment with the computer. He looked at me and asked my name. I said it was Janice and I lived down the hall.”
    â€œWhy did you do that?”
    â€œHe frightened me,” she said.
    â€œYou don’t think he was a cop?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “My father was a cop. I grew up around them, and this guy was different.”
    â€œWhat was different about him?”
    â€œThe way he looked at me.”
    â€œHow was that?”
    She took a breath as if she needed to steady herself just thinking about it.
    â€œLike I was nothing,” Courson said.
    â€œCould you ID him?”
    She shook her head. “I just glanced at him for a second. He was older, beyond that I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want him to see my face.”
    She picked up the brown paper bag at her feet, walked over to the mantel, and took the picture of my brother and herself and put it in the bag.
    â€œCan you tell me anything about his parents?” I said.
    â€œHis mother died of breast cancer when he was in college. I don’t know about his father. John had lots of secrets when it came to family.”
    She looked at me. “But I guess you know about that?”
    Courson looked at me for a moment as if she were trying to find a piece of John in me.
    â€œI never knew him,” I said.
    â€œYou should have. He was . . .” The rest drifted away from her.
    â€œI have to go,” she said.
    â€œHow do I get ahold of you?”
    â€œI think I may go away for a while. You can leave me a message at the public defender’s office downtown.”
    â€œYou’re a lawyer?”
    â€œParalegal.”
    I took out a card, wrote down my cell number on the back, and handed it to her.
    â€œIf you need to reach me for anything.”
    She looked at it for a moment. “You’re not LAPD.”
    â€œPasadena.”
    â€œThis isn’t your case. It’s not even your jurisdiction, ” she said. “If LAPD thinks it’s a suicide then that’s the end of it. There’s nothing you can do.” She started toward the door.
    â€œDana,” I said.
    She stopped.
    â€œJohn tried to fax something to me last night but it never arrived. I think it was whatever he had found.”
    â€œAnd he was killed because of it?” Courson said.
    I nodded. “It’s possible.”
    She glanced nervously at the door.
    â€œI don’t want to die, Lieutenant,” Courson said, and then she turned and looked at me. “Do you?”
    â€œI want to talk again. I want to know who he was,” I said.
    She looked at me for a moment in silence. “He was your brother. What more do you need to know than that?”
    Dana looked back into the apartment as if to find one last memory to hold on to, then rushed out.
    I listened to the fall of her footsteps as she ran down the stairs, and then I closed the door and looked around the room. If I was ever to know anything about my brother, the answers were here for me to sift through like an archaeologist. I could find out what he liked for breakfast, what music he listened to, what clothes he wore, what medicine he kept in his bathroom, what books he read. And none of it would matter because I would never hear the sound of his laughter, or know the look in his eyes when he smiled.
    I walked over to the bedroom door, pushed it open, and turned on the light. Just inside the door the phone machine sat on top of a small bookcase. A blinking red number said there were three messages. I hit play.
    â€œJohnny, it’s me. Call me . . . John, where are you? Call me.”
    The calls were from a bad cell-phone connection, but I guessed it was Dana’s voice. The last message was silent.
    I hit the button to