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Leave a message if I’m not in.“
    Taking the card, Ooch said, “Right, right.“ Then he pointed J with it. “You don’t mind, you put those cans back where you I found them.“
    “Sure.“ I started moving one of them.
    “The city, they raise hell with me, those cans ain’t right along the building ‘cept for Tuesdays and Fridays.“
    I came back for the second can. “Trash days.“
    “Right.“
    I replaced the second can. “So, Tuesday and Friday mornings, you put the cans at the alley, the truck picks up the trash, and you put these cans back against the wall.“
    “Right, right“
    “And you did that a week ago Friday, too.“
    “A course I did.“
    “And they were still against the wall after the police were here that night?“
    “Yeah. I even checked, after they went.“ Flick, snifl/’sniff. “Fucking cops, you can’t trust them to do nothing right.“
    “When you checked the cans, did you find anything else back here?“
    A blank expression. “Like what?“
    “A rake, maybe?“
    “A rake?“ Ooch’s eyes went around the bricked space of his and the adjoining buildings. “You see any lawns back here, pal?“
    “How about a push broom, even a piece of rope with a hook or bar tied to it?“
    “No. Whaddaya, crazy?“
    I looked up the fire escape. “Too bad you weren’t here.“
    “Huh?“
    “Earlier that night, when Tina was killed. Too bad you weren’t here. You might have stopped it.“
    A pained expression, like he hadn’t thought about that before. Then flick, sniff/sniff. “I was here, none of this woulda happened to her.“
    Ooch got weepy. “I was here, I woulda killed the bum did this. Tina was a good girl.“
    He moved back into the doorway, drawing the strap of the T-shirt up to dry his eyes before closing the door behind him.
    I stood in the alley for a while. Holt might have been lying to me back at Homicide. Or maybe he just didn’t throw me a “little chunk“ about what his people found behind the building.
    Staring at the back wall of Number 10 Falmouth Street, I tried to figure out how a burglar could get up to Mau Tim Dani’s apartment by the fire escape without using the cans, or a rake or something, to pull down that raised last flight.

- 5 -

    I drove from the South End toward my neighborhood. In a parking lot on Newbury Street , a guy was maneuvering a large vehicle that had to be seen to be appreciated. Or believed. A brown, swaybacked tube of a cabin like a hot dog was laid partially inside a yellow chassis and frame like a bun. A meat company’s name was printed on the side of the cabin. The passengers could see through Flash Gordon windows at the front and use a hatch where a panel truck’s door would be. I tried not to embarrass the driver as I went by and headed the Prelude back to its space a few blocks away.

    The address Harry Mullen gave me for the Lindqvist/Yulin Agency was on upper Newbury, but when I got to the numbered front door, there was no sign on the building that the agency was located inside. The outside door was unlocked, however, and the mailboxes in the foyer showed a listing for both the agency and a “LINDQVIST, E.“ on the next floor. I pressed the button by the agency name, and the inner door buzzed long enough to let me pass through it. I climbed stairs, one office suite to a floor, until I reached the fourth level and a yellow six-panel with brass knob that had the agency name on a brass plate. I knocked and a male voice said to come in.
    As I swung the door inward, I saw a man about my age and height in blue jeans, turtleneck, and a corduroy Norfolk jacket. He was good-looking in a college professor way, but with a weak chin and shaggy hair, as though he’d told the barber to give him a Beatles look, then said, what the hell, take off another two inches. The hair seemed black and silver, but more like each strand was half each color. He used a telephone receiver to beckon me into the reception area while his free hand