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Chea,” the old woman said. “Now she has no family.”
             “Did Mister Chea ever fight with his wife?”
             “Such a shameful question. Perhaps you should ask me if she killed her husband.”
             “ Did she kill her husband?”
             The old woman’s face flushed. “No!” Sam had no reason to suspect Mrs. Chea. Not yet. But in a murder case the spouse was always a suspect.
             “Who do you think killed Bin Chea?” Sam asked.
             “I really don’t know,” she said. She crossed her arms across her chest, warding off further questions. “I can’t say any more.”
             A light snore came from the bedroom, and Sam looked again at Sichan. “When may I talk to your husband?”
             “Maybe you should talk to him at Samson Cleaning Service tonight. He works there.”
             “What time does he start work?”
             “At eleven tonight.”
             “If you have only four people in the apartment, why do you need extra mattresses on the floor?” She looked at him nervously and didn’t reply. Who could blame her for being nervous? Lots of Cambodians kept expenses down by sharing apartments.
             “I would like to speak with your husband now, please.”
             She shook her head. “He will be angry with me.”
             “Ma’am, what happened to your face?”
             She chewed on her knuckles, looked down at her bare feet. “It’s nothing.”
             “Did he hit you?”
             “I slipped and fell. I am very careless.”
             “No one should ever hit you, Mrs. Lac. If anyone ever hurts you, I want you to call me.” He held out a business card, but she waved it away as though it were a poison mushroom.
             “Hide it in your purse,” he whispered.
             “No. Please go now.” She looked away from him.
             Nawath came out of the bedroom, tightening a belt on his trousers. He was barefoot and shirtless, and wiped his eyes with callused hands. He blinked twice, apparently dispelling the last remnants of sleep. “I’m up,” he said. “What do you want?”
             Sam wanted a lot: What did Nawath hear last night? What did he see? How well did he know the landlord Bin Chea? Did he know of any troubles Mister Chea had with anyone--with other tenants? With anyone at all?
             “A peaceful guy,” Nawath said. “Wouldn’t harm a roach. We’re all going to miss him. I can’t think of anybody who’d want to hurt the old man.”
             “No one? No problems, ever?”
             “How the hell should I know he has problems? Hey, what were you trying to give my wife? Your home phone number, you want to mess around with her?” Nawath offered a sly smile.
             “This is a murder investigation,” Sam said. “If you have any information, please let us know.” He held out the card that Sichan Lac had refused, and Nawath took it. Sam let himself out, realizing that he hated Nawath. But why? The fellow was probably a wife-beater, and he might be withholding information. But the Commonwealth of Massachusetts didn’t require an officer of the law to hate anyone. So why did Sam want to turn Nawath’s nose into gristle?

CHAPTER FOUR
    Viseth Kim sat on the cement steps while air radiate d in waves from the street, down the hill from Bin Chea’s place. He couldn’t remember when it had gotten any hotter than this in the camps in Thailand. He could feel his skin turn brown under the scalding sun. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaked into his tee shirt, worked between his toes and fed whatever growth it was that made his ratty high tops smell so bad.
             The others in his gang were trading germs in the city swimming pool or toking up so they didn’t care so much about the