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there when they opened it, me crying and mad at the … the goddamned waste. They brought it all out of the box, one thing at a time. There was her birth certificate, then her will, then some pictures of your parents, and then her passport. She was always talking about going to France, but she never got around to it. That’s what she majored in, you know, French.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWell, the last thing they brought out of the box was the insurance policy. She took it out just three weeks ago. It was a term policy naming you as sole beneficiary.”
    Anna Maude Singe stopped talking and looked away.
    â€œHow much?” Dill said.
    â€œTwo hundred and fifty thousand,” she said and looked quickly back at Dill, as if to catch his reaction. There was none, except in the eyes. Nothing else in his face changed except the large soft gray eyes that suddenly iced over.
    â€œTwo hundred and fifty thousand,” Dill said finally.
    She nodded.
    â€œLet’s have another drink,” he said. “I’ll buy.”

CHAPTER 4
    At 5:45 P.M. Benjamin Dill was hanging his dark-blue funeral suit in the closet of room 981 in the Hawkins Hotel when they knocked on the door. After he opened it he automatically classified them as policemen. Both wore civilian clothing—well-cut, obviously expensive clothing—but the carefully bored eyes, the practiced intimidating carriage, and the far too neutral expressions around the mouths betrayed their calling.
    Both were tall, well over six feet, and the older one was wide and thick, while the younger one was rake-lean, tan, and just a trifle elegant. The wide one stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Chief Strucker, Mr. Dill. This is Captain Colder.”
    Dill shook Strucker’s heavy freckled hand and then accepted the one offered by Colder. It was slim and exceptionally strong. Colder said, “Gene Colder, homicide.” Dill said, “Come in.”
    They came into the room a little warily, the way policemen do, sweeping it with their eyes and classifying its contents and occupant, not out of curiosity, but habit. Dill waved them to the medium-sized room’s two easy chairs. Strucker lowered himself
carefully with a sigh. Colder sat down like a cat. Strucker took a cigar from his pocket, held it up for Dill to see, and said, “Mind?”
    â€œNot at all,” Dill said. “Would you like a drink?”
    â€œI think I would, by God,” Strucker said. “It’s been a hard one.”
    Dill took a bottle of Old Smuggler from his suitcase, removed the plastic covers from two glasses on the writing desk, fetched another glass from the bathroom, and poured three drinks. “Water?” he asked. Strucker shook his head. Colder said no thanks. Dill handed them their drinks, took his own into the bathroom, ran some water into it, came back out, and sat down on the bed. He waited until Strucker got his cigar going and had swallowed some of the Scotch.
    â€œWho did it?” Dill asked.
    â€œWe don’t know yet.”
    â€œWhy did they do it?”
    Strucker shook his big head. “We don’t know that either.” He sighed again—that long, heavy, despairing sigh. “We’re here for a couple of reasons. One is to try and answer your questions and the other is to offer you the city’s and the department’s official sympathy. We’re goddamned sorry. All of us.”
    â€œYour sister,” Colder said and paused. “Well, your sister was one exceptional … person.”
    â€œHow much did she make a year?” Dill said.
    Strucker looked at Captain Colder for the answer. “Twenty-three-five,” the Captain said.
    â€œAnd the annual premium on a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar term life-insurance policy for a twenty-eight-year-old woman in good health is how much?”
    Strucker frowned. When he did the cap of thick wiry gray hair moved down toward black