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taco wrapper on the floor of the car and scribbled my name and telephone number on it.‘Then give me a call so I won’t worry about her.”
    “It’ll be a couple of hours.”
    I gave him the greasy paper. “I’d appreciate it.”
    I watched him disappear into the building, then drove Luanne to her apartment above Secondhand Rose.
    “Miss Parchester will be fine,” she said, patting my arm. “She outsmarted Peter and all his CID lackeys. They’re a lot tougher than an itty-bitty bulldozer and a few gorillas with more tattoos than brain cells.”
    I decided not to mention the gun. “I just don’t like it. If Finnigan Baybergen were up there on the platform, I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. In fact, I might pack a picnic lunch, find a shady spot beneath an endangered oak tree, and root for the bulldozer.”
    Luanne got out of the car. “If you aren’t overly occupied with Peter, call me after you hear from Randy.”
    I promised I would, then drove home and parked in my allotted half of the basement garage. The downstairs tenants seemed to change with the seasons. The current one had no ascertainable gender and was rarely at home. Caron found him or her spooky, but I had no problem as long as music was not played so loudly that my floor vibrated.
    Caron met me in the kitchen. “We’ve got a problem,” she whispered. “Peter’s in the living room. I can’t explain, but you have to get rid of him.”
    “Is he the problem?”
    “Just get rid of him—okay?”
    I put down my purse and stared at her. “What’s going on, Caron? Have you and Inez done something illegal?”
    “Of course not,” she said as though the two had never skittered near the brink of felony charges and been yanked back by dint of a metaphorical apron string. Her eyes began to well with tears. “I can’t tell you until Peter’s gone. Trust me, Mother—This Is Serious.”
    “All right,” I said, giving her a hug. I went into the living room, where Peter was sitting on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. He’d managed to find a beer, and the pizza box was empty. He was flipping through one of the magazines I receive monthly and rarely find time to read. The domesticity of the scene was unsetding, but I put it aside to think about later, when Caron wasn’t hopping about in the kitchen as though she’d given sanctuary to a serial killer, which was far-fetched but not beyond the realm of possibility. She has an extraordinary track record.
    “Hey,” I said, “how are you?”
    He looked up, his eyes as appealing as warm ginger bread and his teeth as white as whipped cream. “Wondering where you were.”
    “I gave Luanne a ride home,” I said truthfully. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
    “Go anyplace else?”
    I sat down next to him. “Well, let me think. I went to the grocery store this morning, then came back here and made myself a peanut butter on rye for lunch.”
    “Peanut butter on rye?”
    “It’s quite intriguing. After that, I spent the morning at the Book Depot, doing the crossword puzzle and trying to prevent my science fiction hippie from shoplifting several paperbacks. He claims he’s a Marxist and therefore repudiates the concept of private property unless it involves the sale of galactic battleships and nubile slaves with multiple appendages. At noon, I walked to the bank branch and deposited a very minuscule amount of money, but enough to cover the outstanding checks.”
    “And then you ate peanut butter on rye?’
    “Yes, I did. I then sold a few books, banged on the boiler, and dealt with a sales rep who’d had one beer too many. Luanne came by at five and—”
    “Let’s talk about Oakland Heights.”
    “Why would I go there?” I said.
    Peter Rosen had not achieved the rank of lieutenant in the police department because of his talent for disarming witnesses with an adorably dimpled smile. He certainly hadn’t done so in order to collect a monthly paycheck; his family was