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Then singing. A Polish folk song escaped in bits and drabs.
    “They made up,” I said.
    Pop shook his head. “Mothers and daughters.”
    I looked toward the picture of Mama on the radio. When she and I squabbled, it was usually because she was trying to treat me like a little kid. If she’d lived, would that have changed? Would our arguments have become about curfews and boys and my failure to write thank-you notes promptly?
    I left the picture and took in Pop. He was absentmindedly rubbing his leg where the stump met the prosthetic. Usually he took it off after a day out and about. I had to imagine he left it on because Betty was there.
    “What else is bothering you, Iris?” asked Pop.
    I didn’t want to talk to him about Mama, so I reached for the next available topic. “There was a man here when I came home. In front of the house. He told me to tell you hello.”
    “Any idea who he was?”
    “I’m not sure. He said, ‘You must be Iris,’ and when I asked if I knew him, he told me to tell you Stefan says hello.”
    Pop sat taller, his back rigid. “What else did he say?”
    “That was it.”
    Pop’s hand found my arm and squeezed. “He knew your name?”
    “Yes, he knew my name.” He was grabbing me as hard as the man I’d tailed on Fifty-sixth Street. “You’re hurting me, Pop.”
    “I’m sorry.” He released me and put a hand through his hair.
    I rubbed his handprint off my wrist. “Who’s Stefan?”
    “Just a client.”
    “Then why are you upset that he knew my name?”
    He forced a smile and slumped his shoulders. He wasn’t fooling me: I knew a put-on when I saw one. “I like to keep business and personal separate, is all. My clients don’t need to know who you are. And they certainly shouldn’t be talking to you when I’m not here.”
    “Oh.” It was that old chestnut: Pop couldn’t stand the idea of my possibly being in danger. And let’s face it: his clients were hardly the kind of people you wanted hanging around your fifteen-year-old daughter, whether she was working for you or not. “It’s not like we had a conversation. I barely said two words to him.”
    “Good. In fact, in the future, if there’s anyone you don’t know lingering about, don’t even give them those two words. Just keep on walking and go someplace where there’s a telephone and call the house. All right?”
    “All right.”
    Betty entered the room and paused at the coat tree. “ Bonne nuit , Iris. Arthur. It was lovely to see you both.” She began to bundle herself into a smart winter coat.
    Pop rose to his feet. “I’ll walk you. It’s too dark for you to be out there by yourself.”
    “Are you sure?” asked Betty. Her eyes momentarily lowered to his leg.
    “Absolutely,” said Pop. “And that will give us a chance to talk.” With more vigor than he usually had after a long day on his feet, he retrieved his coat and hat.
    I told Betty goodbye and then returned to the office to see if there was any work I’d forgotten to do. My report on the calls tracking Mickey Pryor still sat neatly on top of the other folders. Pop hadn’t even looked at it yet. There was also the small pile of mail he’d brought with him from the P.O. box. Two were invoices he needed to pay—the phone company and the printer he used for his stationery and business cards. I put them with my notes. Two other envelopes had been sliced open and their contents neatly removed. A third one had also been opened, but the check in it was still shoved deep inside. Pop must not have seen it.
    I pulled it out and was about to leave it on the desk, when it occurred to me that he might be more likely to see it if I left it on the safe. As I went to put it there, I pulled the safe’s lever out of habit. Instead of remaining barred, it slid easily to the left.
    The safe was open.

 
     
    CHAPTER
     
    4
    EXCITEMENT TAP-DANCED DOWN MY BACK. Pop must not have secured the safe before dinner. I could’ve closed it and spun the dial, but