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and moved on, wondering whether the strange bicycle in the alley behind the crime scene was significant. Leo didn’t think a murderer would use a bicycle for transportation. Elena reserved judgment. Maybe they’d find someone else who had seen it and could describe it more accurately.
    â€œJeez, gettin’ old’s hell, isn’t it?” said Leo as they left the Ituribes’ yard. “Isn’t there anyone young on your street?”
    â€œMe,” said Elena. “And there are a lot of old people in better health than the ones you’ve seen. Actually, Mrs. Ledesma’s in good health. So was Dimitra before she broke her hip.” They continued to canvass the neighborhood, reinforcing their suspicion that the Potemkins had been a troubled family. Lots of quarrels. Possible abuse. Nobody would admit that Boris had pushed Dimitra down the steps of the bomb shelter, but some hinted. No one else had seen the bicycle. Several had seen Ashkenazi meditating on his porch while Boris shouted insults.
    â€œHow come you missed all the problems with the Potemkins?” Leo asked Elena as they left the last house and went over to Omar Ashkenazi’s place.
    â€œCause I’m three doors away, and Hispanics don’t talk about family abuse. Older Anglos either. It happens, but it’s covered up. Even taken for granted. You ought to know that.”
    Leo shrugged. “I’m gonna catch some Hispanic abuse if I don’t get home to my wife sometime tonight.” He rang the doorbell. No answer. Pounded on the wood. No answer. “His car’s in the driveway,” Leo muttered. “Police! Open up!” he shouted.
    â€œCome on, Leo,” said Elena. “The man’s probably asleep.”
    â€œHe’s not deaf, is he?”
    â€œNo, but when he decides he’s tired, he sticks in earplugs and wears a sleep mask.” She turned away from his door. “I’ll come back later tonight. He’s bound to be awake within the next few hours. And tomorrow we’ll talk to Dimitra again. See if she’s found anything missing. Talk to the son, Lance. Then drop by the senior citizens center at noon to catch the bridge players.”
    â€œSuits me,” Leo agreed.
    â€œYou wanna stay for dinner? Mom will have fixed something.”
    â€œSo will Concepcion, and I’d better turn up to eat it—even if it’s grown mold while we were talking to your neighbors.”
    â€œIt takes more than two hours to grow mold, Leo, unless your refrigerator’s already full of it.”

5
    Monday, September 27, 9:15 P.M.
    When Elena let herself into the house, she heard the familiar thump, thump of her mother’s loom coming from the living room. Harmony was, as usual, setting out to make order and beauty out of chaos.
    â€œYour dinner’s in the microwave,” she called. “Set the timer for four minutes.” Elena did as she was told, peeking under the plastic wrap her mother had laid on the plate. Beans and brisket. It looked great. Harmony must have brought the brisket with her.
    â€œGuacamole in the refrigerator,” Harmony called.
    Elena closed the microwave door, set the timer, and snatched a can of Tecate from the refrigerator. Once she had sprinkled the top with salt, squeezed a cut lime over the salt and taken a deep swallow, she removed her jacket and shoulder holster, placing the gun in a locked drawer. The microwave buzzer went off, and she carried her dinner into the living room.
    In the early days after the vandalism, she’d reshelved the books that had been tossed everywhere, thrown away those that were badly torn, along with broken lamps and end tables, swept up the glass underfoot, and ordered miniblinds to replace the ravaged draperies. Then she’d put off the rest. Consequently, a jagged hole gaped at her from the television screen, and the slashed upholstery had not been replaced. Somehow she hadn’t