When I got back to my hotel there was a message from Lynn London. I called her from the pay phone in the lobby and explained who I was and what I wanted.

She said, “My father hired you? It’s funny he didn’t say anything to me. I thought they had the man who killed my sister. Why would he suddenly—well, let’s let it ride for now. I don’t know what help I could be.”

I said I’d like to meet with her to talk about her sister.

“Not tonight,” she said briskly. “I just got back from the mountains a couple of hours ago. I’m exhausted and I’ve got to do my lesson plans for the week.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I teach during the day. I’ve got a dinner date and I’m going to a concert after that. Tuesday’s my group therapy night. Maybe Wednesday? That’s not terribly good for me either. Hell.”

“Maybe we could—”

“Maybe we could handle it over the phone? I don’t really know very much, Mr. Scudder, and God knows I’m beat at the moment, but perhaps I could deal with, say, ten minutes’ worth of questions right now, because otherwise I honestly don’t know when we could get together. I don’t really know very much, it was a great many years ago and—”

“When do you finish your classes tomorrow afternoon?”

“Tomorrow afternoon? We dismiss the children at three fifteen, but—”

“I’ll meet you at your apartment at four.”

“I told you. I have a dinner date tomorrow.”

“And a concert after it. I’ll meet you at four. I won’t take that much of your time.”

She wasn’t thrilled, but that’s how we left it. I spent another dime and called Jan Keane. I recapped the day and she told me she was in awe of my industriousness. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes I think I’m just putting in time. I could have accomplished the same thing today with a couple of phone calls.”

“We could have handled our business over the phone last night,” she said. “As far as that goes.”

“I’m glad we didn’t.”

“So am I,” she said. “I think. On the other hand, I was planning on working today and I couldn’t even look at clay. I’m just hoping this hangover wears off by bedtime.”

“I had a clear head this morning.”

“Mine’s just beginning to clear now. Maybe my mistake was staying in the house. The sun might have burned off some of the fog. Now I’m just sitting around until it’s a reasonable hour to go to sleep.”

There might have been an unspoken invitation in that last sentence. I probably could have invited myself over. But I was already home, and a short and quiet evening had its appeal. I told her I’d wanted to say how I’d enjoyed her company and that I’d call her.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “You’re a sweet man, Matthew.” A pause, and then she said, “I’ve been thinking about it. He probably did it.”

“He?”

“Doug Ettinger. He probably killed her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. People always have motives to kill their spouses, don’t they? There was never a day when I didn’t have a reason to kill Eddie.”

“I meant why do you think he did it.”

“Oh. What I was thinking, I was thinking how devious you would have to be to kill someone and imitate another murder. And I realized what a devious man he was, what a sneak. He could plan something like that.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Listen, I don’t have any special knowledge. But it’s what I was thinking earlier. And now he’s doing what? Selling sporting goods? Is that what you said?”

I sat in my room and read for a while, then had dinner around the corner at Armstrong’s. I stayed there for a couple of hours but didn’t have very much to drink. The crowd was a light one, as it usually is on a Sunday. I talked to a few people but mostly sat alone and let the events of the past two days thread their way in and out of my consciousness.

I made it an early night, walked down to Eighth Avenue for the early edition of Monday’s News. Went back to my room, read the paper, took a shower. Looked at myself in the mirror. Thought about shaving, decided to wait until morning.

Had a nightcap, a short one. Went to bed.

I was deep in a dream when the phone rang. I was running in the dream, chasing someone or being chased, and I sat up in bed with my heart pounding.

The phone was ringing. I reached out, answered it.

A woman said, “Why don’t you let the dead bury the dead?”

“Who is this?”

“Leave the dead alone. Let the dead stay buried.”

“Who is this?”

A click. I turned on a light and looked at my watch. It was around one thirty. I’d been sleeping an hour, if that.

Who had called me? It was a voice I’d heard before but I couldn’t place it. Lynn London? I didn’t think so.

I got out of bed, flipped pages in my notebook, picked up the phone again. When the hotel operator came on I read off a number to him. He put the call through and I listened as it rang twice.

A woman answered it. Same woman who’d just told me to leave the dead alone. I’d heard her voice once before that, and remembered it now.

I had nothing to say to her that wouldn’t wait a day or two. Without saying anything, I replaced the receiver and went back to bed.