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until October. And there’d be mornings when he’d leave and come back at night. I think there were several times when he was gone for days.”
    â€œReally. You have a record of his last payment?”
    She shook her head in the direction of the interior of her apartment. “Come on in, I gotta look it up.”
    Monk entered the place. It was furnished in preserved vinyl chairs and a sofa done in tubular post-modern lines. There was a bookcase filled with current and past best sellers as well as a healthy dose of non-fiction books on topics ranging from the S&L crisis to a biography of Golda Meir. Along the walls were inexpensive prints of Picasso, Braque and Nagel.
    â€œDid you ask Suh why he’d closed up?”
    Betty was looking through her book of receipts on a neatly ordered desk. “I thought about it. Sure was curious him paying the rent on time and all but having no visible means of income. But frankly, I didn’t work up the nerve to.” She found what she was looking for and walked over to where Monk stood in her living room. She gazed at a slip of paper.
    â€œI made this note to myself. October 1st was a Thursday and I collected the rent, and I didn’t see Mr. Suh that whole day.” She lifted her eyes off the paper. “I remember now. On the following Saturday I happened to be up early watering the plants out front and I saw him come up.”
    â€œWalking or driving?”
    â€œDriving. But it was a different car than the one he had before. It was brown, small, but I don’t know from cars. I asked him about the rent, and he assured me I’d have it that afternoon. Only that was the last I saw of him.”
    Monk wrote down the make and license number of the car Suh had listed on his rent application. “Do you know what time he left that day?”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    â€œHow did he seem to you that morning?”
    â€œLike he always was, I guess. I don’t mean to be racist or anything, but Mr. Suh was always pleasant, always composed, like I notice a lot of Asians are. Self-contained you might say.”
    â€œHe didn’t seem to have anything on his mind?”
    â€œLike I said, Ivan, he just walked up calm like, we exchanged a few words, then he went on in.” She squinted her eyes again. “He was carrying a big—oh, I don’t know what you’d call it—but a large accordion file folder with a flap over it and tied up.” She pantomimed the size of the file. “He had it tucked under his arm.”
    â€œAnd that was the last time you saw him?”
    â€œYep. A week went by from that Saturday, and on the following Friday I used my key to let myself into his place. Gone.” She did a thing with her hands like an umpire signaling “safe.”
    â€œWhat became of his personal possessions?” There was an anxious edge in Monk’s voice.
    â€œI waited two weeks more, then gave his clothes to the second hand.”
    â€œDamn,” Monk swore.
    â€œHey, at least I should be able to get a tax deduction for the lost income,” she said defensively.
    â€œWhat about books or papers he had?”
    â€œThrew them out. A lot of them were in Korean.” She held up her hands pleading self-defense.
    He stared at her intently. “Do you remember anything about them?”
    â€œI leafed through a couple of the Korean magazines. There was a picture of these cops beating people and some others showing people throwing Molotov cocktails.”
    â€œThis was coverage of what happened here?”
    â€œNo, these were Asians, Koreans I guess.”
    â€œWhat about anything in English?”
    â€œOh, just some Time and Newsweek magazines, and some business ones also.”
    â€œListen, you’ve really been a big help.” He handed her one of his business cards. “If you think of anything else, give me a call will you?”
    â€œI sure will.” She put the card in