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said somebody came by this afternoon. After you were here. He told me to tell you that.”
    “Did he get a name?”
    “Nah. I guess he didn’t leave it, or Harold didn’t ask. Harold said it was one of her guys.”
    “One of her guys?”
    “Hey, she’s got friends. This was one of ’em. I know who it was by Harold’s description. I mean, not his name or anything. But I seen him.”
    “What’s he look like?”
    “Old guy. Older than you, even. Busted-up face. Like he was a boxer or something? Crooked nose, scar tissue around his eyes, pockmarks on his cheeks. Big guy. Not tall, but thick. Got these big shoulders.” He shrugged his own narrow shoulders.
    “No name, occupation, anything?”
    “No. I seen this guy come and go with her a lot. That’s it.”
    “And he was here today?”
    “So says Harold. The way he described him, must be the same guy.”
    “This is the only man you’ve seen her with, then?”
    He grinned. “Hell, no. Like I said, she’s got plenty of friends. There’s this other guy comes around a lot. Shit, he’s nearly as old as Harold, I bet. This old hippie. Bald, earring, big long gray ponytail hanging down his back. Weird old dude.”
    “No name for him, either.”
    “Nope. And there are others. I don’t remember any of them. I mean, none of the others spend the night, dig?”
    “But these two do? The boxer and the hippie?”
    He grinned. “Wouldn’t you?”
    I let that one pass. “Is there a superintendent in the building?”
    “Sure. That’d be Jill. Speaking of bitches.”
    “I’d like to talk to her.”
    “That’s what you think.”
    “Would you mind buzzing her for me?”
    “Hey, it’s your funeral, mister.”
    He picked up the phone, poked a few buttons, and said, “Hey, Jill. A guy’s here wants to talk to you.” He paused, listening. Then he said, “I dunno. Some lawyer.”
    He frowned at the receiver for a minute, then lifted his eyebrows to me. “She wants to know if you’re her husband’s lawyer.”
    “No.”
    “Nope,” he said into the telephone. “He says no.” He hesitated. “Yeah, all right.”
    He hung up. “She said she’d be up.”
    “Thanks.”
    He looked down at his magazine. Sports Illustrated. After a minute he snapped his radio back on.
    “God damn it, Donald,” came a voice from behind me. “You are not supposed to let people into the lobby and you are not supposed to be playing a radio.”
    I turned around. She was short and slender and angry. Her straight blond hair fell halfway down her back. Her jeans were tight. Her man’s blue oxford shirt was untucked and hung loosely over her hips. Her icy blue eyes blazed. I guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She could have passed for a teenager.
    Donald snapped off his radio. “Uh, sorry, Jill. Harold said this guy was okay.”
    “Yeah, well Harold is just a security guard like you, and his job is to maintain the security of this building, just like yours is. Neither of you is doing a very good job of it, and neither of you is what you’d call a shrewd judge of character.” She turned her head and pierced me with those cold eyes. “And you. You’re a lawyer, huh?”
    “Yes. Brady Coyne. I—”
    “You represent John Francis Costello, right? That sonofabitch sent you here with a bunch of papers, and you’re supposed to sweet-talk me into signing them. Well, forget it.”
    “I never heard of any Costello,” I said.
    She cocked her head at me and frowned. “No, huh?”
    “Nope.”
    “Honest?”
    “Honest.”
    “No subpoena or anything?”
    I shook my head.
    She shrugged. “Well, shit. Sorry, then.” She turned again to Donald. “That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to let anybody who says he’s a lawyer into this building, and I don’t care what Harold says. You know your job.”
    Donald succeeded in stifling the beginnings of a sarcastic smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I’m Jill Costello,” she said to me. “I’m the super here. What’s up?”
    I darted my