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if he weren’t so sure.
    “You must know a name,” I said. “One name.”
    It’s an old trick, ask for one name, implying that if you get it you’ll go away and leave them alone. Graff fell for it.
    “Well, there’s Roy,” he said.
    “And there’s Siegfried,” I said.
    Graff looked as if he didn’t find me amusing. It was a look I’ve grown familiar with.
    “Roy Levesque,” Graff said. “I believe she went to high school with him.”
    “Do you have an address for Roy?” I said.
    “I believe he lives in Franklin.”
    Through the window I could see the Chrysler sedan cruise up and pause in front of where Curly was standing.
    “Anybody else?” I said.
    “You said one name.”
    “I’m not very trustworthy,” I said. “You must know one more name.”
    He didn’t bite the second time. Most of the time they don’t. But the effort was there.
    “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Spenser, I really don’t. I’m sure Mrs. Smith can help you.”
    “I’m sure,” I said. “When you accompany her socially, are you paid for your time?”
    Graff looked like he wanted to hang one on my kisser, though it seemed unlikely that he would.
    “I am on retainer to Mrs. Smith,” Graff said.
    “To do what?” I said.
    “She has a very crowded and committed social calendar,” Graff said. “I help her organize it.”
    Graff sounded as if he were not as pleased to see me as he had said he was when I came in.
    “How about Mr. Smith?”
    “He was not as socially oriented as Mrs. Smith.”
    Outside the Chrysler moved away from Curly and cruised slowly down Appleton toward Berkeley. Curly remained, strolling up and down looking at roof lines, admiring the architecture.
    “You and Mr. Smith friendly?” I said.
    Graff looked offended. “Why do you ask?”
    “I have no idea,” I said. “I’m just a gabby guy.”
    “Oh, I’m sure,” Graff said.
    “So were you friendly?”
    “He was always a gentleman,” Graff said.
    “But?”
    “But nothing at all. I worked for Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith was always pleasant. I don’t know him very well.”
    “How about Marvin Conroy?”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
    “Amy Peters?”
    Graff shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spenser, but I really must cut this short. I have a client meeting that I’m already late for.”
    “With whom?” I said.
    “That is really none of your business, Mr. Spenser.”
    I fought back the impulse to say, Well, I’m making it my business. Susan would be proud of me. I stood. We shook hands. And I went out to take Curly for a walk.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Once you know you’re being tailed it is easy to spot it. Today we were cruising along Route 495. Me and my shadow. They were driving another black car, an Explorer. Everybody uses black cars for surveillance. Like somehow a black car wouldn’t be noticed. Maybe it’s the movies. At Route 140 we turned off toward Franklin. According to the phone book Roy Levesque still lived there.
    The address was a green shingled ranch near the college. A narrow concrete walk led up to the house. The lawn was neat, and a big hydrangea with blue flowers bloomed beside the front door. I parked out front. The black Explorer drove on past, with Curly in the passenger seat, carefully looking the other way.
    I went up the concrete walk and stood on the low concrete front step and rang the doorbell. A burly woman with gray hair opened the door. She was wearing a flowered dress that reached her ankles.
    “Hi,” I said brightly, “I’m looking for Roy Levesque.”
    She had a pale indoor face and thick black eyebrows that almost met over the bridge of her broad nose.
    “Why?”
    “I’d like to talk with him about Mary Toricelli.”
    The woman looked like she had smelled a bad thing. Maybe it was Mary. Maybe she always looked that way.
    “What about her?”
    “Is Roy home?”
    She thought about that for a moment.
    “He’s eatin‘ his breakfast,” she said. “He works nights.”
    “Maybe I could join