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day felt more like a beginning to him than an end. He had things to do.
    He’d arranged a layover in Chattanooga on his way home so he could talk to the Gepmans, the couple who’d witnessed the Pompano Beach murder.
    After a connecting flight from Nashville, he found himself in a sputtering rental car in Chattanooga, studying a street guide and trying to find the Gepmans’ house on Starlight Lane.
    Chattanooga was a clean and compact city huddled at the base of Lookout Mountain, where a Civil War battle had been fought, and few people outside Tennessee remembered which side had won. Said something about battles, Carver thought. He drove away from the looming, misted mountain, following his map.
    Starlight Lane was north of the downtown area, a cul-de-sac lined with similar low frame houses. The Gepmans’ home was painted lime green, with dark green shutters, and was almost completely hidden behind a large magnolia tree.
    Carver parked the car, then made his way up the walk, ducking the tree’s branches with their thick, waxy leaves. He used the tip of his cane to ring the doorbell and heard its muffled chimes deep in the house’s interior, like the bell of a ship far out at sea.
    He’d thought about phoning the Gepmans to make sure someone was home, but he’d rejected the idea. It was better to talk to people cold, without them having a chance to form preconceptions. He was hoping, after the passage of time and a change in locale, that one of the Gepmans might remember something they hadn’t told the police in Pompano Beach. Memory was unpredictable; time passed and hidden moments sometimes bobbed to the surface.
    Mrs. Gepman opened the door. She was a tanned brunette about thirty, with a full and well-proportioned figure and dark, inquisitive eyes. She was wearing blue shorts and a red blouse with brown stains on it. She smelled like peanut butter. “I’m awful busy,” she said with a smile. “So if you’re selling something or taking a survey . . .”
    “My name’s Fred Carver, Mrs. Gepman. I’m not taking a survey, but I’d like to ask some questions. My son was killed in Florida. The way you saw somebody killed.”
    That found a nerve and the smile twisted into a grimace on her soft, handsome features. “I’m Margaret Gepman, Mr. Carver. C’mon in. You’ll have to excuse me, though; I’m feeding the kids right now.”
    Carver stepped into a small, neat living room with glass-topped end tables and lots of potted plants. Above the sofa was a vast print of a snowy landscape, bought more for size and color coordination than for artistic merit. A Bible lay open on a tall walnut dictionary stand in a corner. The air-conditioning was humming away softly; it was cool in there. “Is your husband home?”
    “Jerry? Sure. He’s in his royal chamber. This way.”
    He followed her from the tranquil neatness of the living room into a large den that was a riot of toys and children’s books scattered over the floor and furniture. A chunky wooden truck large enough for a small child to ride rested on its side near the sofa. Identical bright blue plastic parts of some kind of construction toy were spread haphazardly over the oval area rug. They were all the diameter of a pencil, about half as long, and had tiny protrusions at each end so they could be linked together at angles. They were mixed in with spilled pieces of what looked like an impossibly difficult jigsaw puzzle.
    In the middle of all this, leaning back in kingly repose in a brown vinyl recliner and munching a grilled cheese sandwich, was Jerry Gepman. He was dressed as informally as his wife, in ragged jeans and a plaid, short-sleeved shirt. He had a stomach paunch and a simple, friendly face. He looked like the kind of guy who’d command a Boy Scout troop until he was seventy.
    “This is Mr. Fred Carver,” Margaret Gepman said. She had dimples not when she smiled but when she talked. “He wants to ask us some more about what happened in Florida.