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6th Street. This was her patch, the place where she slept at night, held court for the privileged few, and though Sam had caught occasional glimpses of her on Washington Avenue and on the beach itself, he had no idea where she spent the rest of her days.
    She invited him to sit, turned down the sandwich, but accepted the wine. Sam knew better than to suggest she keep the Cuban for later, because it was June and the cheese and ham and butter would be rancid in no time without refrigeration, and Mildred Bleeker, he knew, had standards.
    â€˜May I offer you a drink, Samuel?’
    Since Judy Becket, his adoptive mom, had passed away, no one else in the world had called him that, but Mildred believed that names from the good book should never be messed with, had reminded him that his late parents had chosen it for a reason.
    Now she held out the bottle, label facing out, almost like a wine waiter in a fine restaurant. It was a ritual she seemed to enjoy, even though Mildred knew perfectly well that Sam would decline because he was on duty.
    He thanked her as always, raised his cardboard cup of tea.
    Time was, Sam Becket had been a real coffee aficionado, had been pretty much addicted to fine espresso, but one of the after-effects of last year’s traumas was that he doubted if he’d ever be able to so much as sip coffee again.
    â€˜So,’ he said now, peaceably. ‘Is this purely social?’
    â€˜You know I wouldn’t waste your time, Samuel,’ Mildred said. ‘Especially not when you have such serious work to do.’
    â€˜I wish that weren’t so.’ Frankly, homicide aside, Sam could think of any number of worse ways to while away an hour than talking to this lady. ‘And before I forget, Grace sends her best.’
    She and Grace had never met, but they knew about each other, and Grace had told Sam she suspected she’d enjoy the experience if they did have the opportunity.
    â€˜And mine to her,’ Mildred said.
    Sam took a sip of his tea, waited a moment.
    â€˜So what’s up?’
    â€˜That poor man, of course,’ she said.
    â€˜Mildred, did you see something?’ Sam came right to it.
    â€˜I’m not a witness to the crime, thank the Lord.’ There were people around, lazing on the grass behind them, strolling on the promenade and, beyond, on the beach, but no one was close enough to hear her, yet still Mildred lowered her voice. ‘And what I have seen – who I have seen – most likely had nothing at all to do with it.’
    â€˜Try me,’ Sam said, gently.
    â€˜I saw a stranger,’ she said. ‘Someone new.’
    Mildred spoke slowly, thoughtfully, and though she had been mulling this over at length, it went against her principles to pack trouble on to someone else’s shoulders when they might not be in the least deserving of it.
    â€˜Now I know, same as you, this place is always filled with strangers – and I use that word advisedly, Detective – but this young man just gave me a bad feeling.’ She screwed up her face, wrinkling her nose so that for a moment she looked almost pug-like. ‘And I’m hoping it wasn’t just his appearance, because I try not to set store by that kind of thing.’
    â€˜I know that,’ Sam said.
    Mildred shook her head, her salt-and-pepper hair long but pinned up tidily – and Sam had never seen it otherwise, had often admired that as well as the lady’s ability, against all the odds, to keep herself clean-smelling. ‘He was nothing more than a boy, really, and maybe just another poor soul selling himself to keep from joining the likes of me on the streets. But still, there was something about him that made the skin on my back creep, and it was a whole lot more than the way he was done up.’
    â€˜How exactly was that?’ Sam was intrigued.
    â€˜He was . . .’ She gave a small shrug. ‘He was silver , all over. But not