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railroad track, then Lake Erie, glistening under the winter-diminished starlight.
    “It’s better in the daytime.” Megan folded her arms across her chest and tucked her hands under her jacket sleeves. “You can see two lighthouses from this spot, and the Huletts.”
    “Huletts?”
    “Cranes. Bigger than most buildings. They used them to unload ore from Great Lakes ships after about 1912. Faster and cheaper than killing off another generation of Irishmen.”
    “Your ancestors?”
    “So I’m told. The Irishmen, not the cranes.”
    Niccolo was always interested in history, but he wondered what this had to do with the man in the saloon’s parking lot. “What exactly did you want to show me?”
    “Do you know what they call that?” She gestured to the land stretching out to the lake beyond the interstate, the land piled high with ore and interlaced with railroad tracks.
    “Not a clue.”
    “Whiskey Island.”
    For the first time he understood the name of the saloon. “Why?”
    “Well, it was the home of the first still in northeast Ohio, back in the early 1800s, when Cleveland was nothing more than swampland and murderous winters. Then later in the century the Irish settled there because nobody else would have it. Suddenly everyone in Cleveland thought the land was well named.”
    He was enjoying this. “Isn’t that a shameful stereotype?”
    She faced him. “In its heyday, there were fourteen saloons on Whiskey Island. Stereotype or not.”
    He whistled softly.
    “It’s not an island, although it probably was at one time. Technically, now, it’s a peninsula. But you asked how long we’ve been giving away food here at the saloon? In the thirties there was a thriving Hooverville out there. And my ancestors just got into the habit. They’d been doing it for years—informally, of course. Every man with a sad story got a bowl of soup, no questions asked. But during the Depression, food was served right here in the parking lot every single night. Men scrabbled up the hill at closing time, and whatever was left belonged to them. I’m told my family made sure there was always something left.”
    “The saloon’s been in your family that long?”
    “Since the foundation was dug at the end of the nineteenth century. And before that, we lived down there ourselves. When it came time to move up in the world, my ancestors refused to move out of sight. I’m told they wanted to remember where we’d come from. And none of us ever forgot.”
    He thought how unusual this was, and yet how easily his own family would understand the Donaghues’ attachment to what at first glance was nothing more than a slice of urban wasteland.
    “So you’re telling me you have a history of helping those in need? And one of them might have left the sole of his shoe under your sister’s car?”
    “More likely that sole was there when Casey parked tonight. Maybe it’s been there for weeks. Who knows?”
    He watched the cars on the Shoreway below them. The hill leading down to it was steep but accessible. And the highway was not crowded at this time of night. A man on foot could disappear down the hillside and cross without incident. He could do it before anyone had the presence of mind to look for him, which in this case had been several hours.
    Niccolo made up his mind to cross the Shoreway tomorrow and have a look around Whiskey Island. “Maybe the man I saw tonight was looking for a handout.”
    “Well, he would have found one if he’d stayed around. He didn’t need to run away.”
    “It’s possible he thought he’d get in trouble for what he’d done.”
    “For stopping a carjacking?”
    “You seem determined to prove I imagined him.”
    She didn’t answer for a moment. When she did, she sounded nonchalant. “We’ll never know. I just thought you might enjoy a little history. It’s a good background for snooping.”
    “Was I snooping?”
    “A figure of speech.”
    He rested a hand on her shoulder, a casual, easy