I LAY BELLY TO THE CARPET, ARMS FLUNG OVER MY HEAD. I SENSED stinging on my left shoulder and cheek.

Traffic sounds drifted in from the street. A man singing. The hum of a transformer next to the building behind mine.

Inside the condo, nothing but quiet.

Cold air was rapidly chilling the room.

I opened my eyes. The upended lamp was out. Light from my computer screen sparked fragments of glass scattered around me.

Then, in the stillness, I heard a soft crunch.

A footstep?

My breath froze in my throat.

Pushing with my palms, I hopped up into a squat and twisted.

Birdie was staring at the window with round yellow eyes, one forepaw frozen like a setter on point.

“Birdie,” I hissed. “Come here.”

The cat kept staring.

“Bird.” I reached out a hand. It was shaking.

Birdie took a tentative step toward the window, nose up and twitching, instincts roused by the unfamiliar scent of outdoors.

Keeping low, I duckwalked across the room, scooped and pressed the cat to my chest, then strained for further sounds. Did I sense another presence in the condo?

My ears picked up nothing but Birdie’s breathing and my own racing heart.

As my vitals normalized, questions ricocheted in my head.

What the hell had just happened? An explosion in the restaurant across the alley? A collision in the street?

Had someone fired a missile? A cherry bomb? A bottle rocket?

Who?

Kids, drunk or stoned or simply careless?

Or had my window just taken a bullet? If so, had the shooting been accidental? A random drive-by?

Had the hit been intentional, the barrel aimed specifically at me?

Probably not, or the shooter had very poor aim.

To intimidate?

Sparky?

Was my neighbor escalating his campaign to oust me from the building?

Sudden recollection. Go home damn American!!

Was the letter from Sparky? Someone more dangerous? Should I have taken the message more seriously? Was the sender a genuine threat?

Why had I refused to discuss the issue with Ryan?

Simple. I’d traveled that road. I knew Ryan would kick into gear and tag me with round-the-clock guards. Or a listening device on my bedside lamp. Or an ankle bracelet that sounded an alarm if I raised my voice.

Had Ryan’s tossed-off suggestion been right? Had the letter writer also placed the call to Edward Allen Jurmain?

Sparky?

Someone more malevolent?

Professional slander.

Hate mail.

Incoming projectiles.

Were the caller, the sender, and the window blaster one and the same? I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

A unit showed up within minutes. The cops listened, dutifully checked the window, made a few notes. Then we all went outside.

Broken glass littered the lawn, but there wasn’t a bullet casing or spent rocket in sight. We agreed on a probable point of origin, a cement ledge behind a pizza parlor across the alley. The spot is a popular hangout for kids and street people.

The cops were aware that I knew the drill, didn’t try to fool me. Property damage, no personal injury. The skirmish would receive the same level of attention as a snatched pair of panties.

Unless I turned up dead in the immediate future. Then the incident would be investigated to Yonkers and back.

When the cops left I went to the basement for a piece of the plywood Winston keeps on hand. This has happened to me before, though with somewhat less flair.

I’d barely wedged a patch into place when Ryan called. The man’s network makes the CIA look amateur. Nifty if you need info. Annoying when you’re the gossip traded.

I assured Ryan I was fine.

“You think it’s this dickhead neighbor of yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who else have you pissed off?”

I used silence as an answer.

“You there?”

“I’m here.”

“Got any theories?”

“Kids with fireworks.”

“Got any other theories?”

I reminded him of the letter, and granted that maybe, just maybe, he could be right concerning Edward Allen’s informant. I’ll give it to him; he didn’t say I told you so.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked.

“Fix the window,” I said.

“I could be there in ten minutes.”

“I’m good.”

There was a brief pause. Then, “I found something.”

I suspected the segue was another shot at a foot in my door.

“I ran Red O’Keefe’s name against the Villejoin and Jurmain files. Got nothing. Then I tried the aliases.”

Ryan paused for effect. I waited.

“The Villejoins paid for everything by cash or money order, and recorded expenditures in a ledger. Unfortunately, they didn’t bother with dates. But around the time of Anne-Isabelle’s murder, a handyman removed a dead pine from the sisters’ backyard. The entry appears as a one-hundred-fifty-dollar payment to one M. Keith.”

“You’re thinking it’s Bud Keith.” In French, Monsieur is abbreviated M. Monsieur Keith. Aka Red O’Keefe. “That could be huge.”

“Could be.”

That night I tossed and turned for a very long time. It wasn’t just the window. Questions bombarded me from all cardinal points.

You know how you play games when you can’t fall asleep? I envisioned four columns, similar to the three I’d created for Jurmain, the Villejoins, and Keiser. I even titled them. Mentally.

The Grudge. The Gouvrards. The Grannies. The Gloom.

Adrenaline-buzzed, my mind ping-ponged among them.

The Grudge: Though Ryan’s comment had irked me, I had to admit his reaction was plausible. The letter. The accusation. Perhaps the assault on my window. Clearly, I’d pissed someone off.

Who? What was the gripe? How could I smoke the rodent from his hole?

The Gouvrards: The Lac Saint-Jean bones were in wretched condition. The antemortem records were useless, given what had been recovered. At least for the adults and the older child. There’d been so many interruptions I’d yet to read little Valentin’s file.

Were the vics in my lab actually the Gouvrards? Would the degraded bone yield anything that could be sequenced? Could an appropriate relative be located? Without DNA, how would I resolve the issue?

The Grannies: In the past three years, four elderly women had rolled into the morgue, one fresh, two skeletal, one burned and decomposed. Though cause of death was unclear for Rose Jurmain and Marilyn Keiser, unquestionably Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin had been murdered.

Why such abuse of the old and frail? By whom? Red O’Keefe–Bud Keith? If so, what could I do to help nail his ass? Was O’Keefe–Keith responsible for more killings?

Did Myron Pinsker fit into the mix? Marilyn Keiser’s daughter or son, Mona or Otto? How? If not a family member, who had cashed Keiser’s pension checks?

If the deaths were linked, would it happen again? Was a predator out there even now, prepared to kill? What could I do to prevent that, to protect other old ladies?

I thought about murder in general. With each passing year the violence seemed to increase in frequency and decrease in rationality. People were shot for handing out pink slips, for taking too long to bag burgers, for driving too slowly or following too close.

My four grannies had all been murdered, I could feel it in my gut. For what? By whom? I wanted the situation to make sense, but it didn’t.

The Gloom: Normally, I’d have sought counsel from my coworkers. But the mood at the lab was tense and unreceptive. LaManche was ill. Joe was sulking. Hubert was angry. Santangelo was leaving, and I didn’t even know why. Ayers was acting cool and aloof. Briel’s unrelenting pressuring was inexplicably grating.

On and on. Over and over. Faces. Names. Rose Jurmain. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle Villejoin. Marilyn Keiser. Myron Pinsker. Florian Grellier. Red O’Keefe–Bud Keith. Sparky Monteil. Achille, Vivienne, Serge, and Valentin Gouvrard.

The glowing orange digits said 1:15, then 2:18, 2:43, 3:06.

Then the alarm was chirping.

In a fog, I rolled over and palm-smacked the button.

The next sound I heard was a ringing phone.

Groggy, I reached out and dragged the handset to my ear. Clicked on.

“Mm.”

“You OK?” Ryan.

“Dandy.”

“Just checking.”

“Jesus, Ryan.” Sitting upright. “What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

I checked the clock.

“Shit!”

“You coming in? I’ve got some more—”

“Thirty minutes.”

Flying across the room, I yanked undies from the bureau, then threw on yesterday’s jeans and sweater. In the bathroom I had a thirty-second moment with the Sonicare, splashed water on my face, yanked my hair into a pony, and bolted.