“I learned about your son’s old group.”

“What old group?”

“The Daily Telegraph. The band he was in with Elkaim’s son.”

“Oh that, that was no group, that was a bad joke.”

“So…you knew about them.”

“There was nothing to know. They played one high school contest—battle of the bands. And they lost. I was there, it was pathetic. I took pictures for their yearbook, big deal.”

“I’d like to see those,” I said. “And hear more about what happened with them after—”

“Is that all you’ve got? His lousy band?”

“The drummer was murdered,” I said. “Then the guitarist. And then—”

Our eyes met again in the zone of mistrust. I tried to convey real sympathy. It’s not easy when the other guy’s holding a Rock Island whatever-it’s-called. But Hawley Senior caught the vibe and cast a curious glance at the gun in his hand. Exasperated, he shoved it in his trench coat pocket.

“Is that why Devvy visited Elkaim? His stupid band?”

“Your son said he could prove Emil was innocent.”

“Oh blarney. I warned Devvy to get off all that—many times. I told him none of it was anybody’s business anymore.” Hawley Senior drew a hand across his face. “But he was done listening to his pop.”

“Do you remember the other members?”

“Sure I do. Emil. Jeff and Mickey and Rey, they were kids.”

“What about the girl across the street, the one who OD’d.” I pointed with my chin. “Cynthia Persky?”

“What about her? Trouble for everyone in the neighborhood. Just like her mother.”

I let my eyes trace the upstairs windows of the Persky home, then brought them back to Mr. Hawley. “Was she trouble for your son?”

“Cinnamon?” He threw me a knowing look. “That one was out of Devvy’s league.”

“But my understanding is she helped the band.”

“Devon followed her around like a pup.”

“Well,” I said, “she was the girl next door. Like, literally.”

“Too close for comfort if you ask me. Devvy was stuck on her. I mean really stuck.” Hawley Senior’s shaky hand felt for his coat pocket, as if he might try to shoot his way out of overpowering memories. “I said to him, repeatedly, ‘Devon Junior, why are you torturing yourself? This girl doesn’t like you.’ Devvy would break down and cry. Just like he was a little boy again.”

Hawley Senior looked around the lonesome street of giant homes like he was a little boy again, a frightened one.

“I am so sorry about what happened to your son, Mr. Hawley.”

“No.” His arms dropped and he turned, first this way, then that. The cul-de-sac provided no comfort. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. This has been an exercise in futility. What the hell am I doing?”

“Just what I’m doing. Trying to find out who would be sick enough to harm these guys. Have you spoken with the police?”

“Yes, I know all about the man they’re holding—some cat burglar.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I’m not. They’re lying through their teeth. They haven’t spent a minute learning the first thing about Devon. They want it off the books.”

“Mr. Hawley,” I said, “some people believe…or…have intimated that maybe Cynthia Persky…didn’t OD. That maybe she isn’t even dead. I know that’s completely crazy, but…is there anything to it?”

I couldn’t be sure he’d heard me at first; he stood there like a statue. Up behind the castle turrets of his home, the moon hung, casting a gloomy pale light across his still face. It made the guy look embalmed, but some horror of recognition burned in the blue of his eyes.

Then he whispered, “That’s what he said.”

“Who?”

“My poor son. I…didn’t believe him, he was trying to tell me—he said she was…I got angry, I—”

“What did he try to—”

“—he was chasing her, still. I called him an idiot, I—”

“But what did he say to you exactly?”

Hawley Senior was trembling now. “That’s what he knew,” he said. “That’s what killed him.”

“Mr. Hawley, did he say where she was? Where she ran to?”

I was practically shaking, frantic.

“No.” He looked up to the Persky curtains again and mumbled, “No, he didn’t. He tried. He wanted to…tell me everything. And I…”

“What? Tell me.”

He shook his head. “I hung up on him.”

Then the lamplights flickered once and Devon Hawley Senior awoke from his stupor of shame like a man who’d sleepwalked into some random dead end. He turned to me pleadingly and said, “I’m tired. I…I must be grieving. I need to rest.”

“Do you need help?”

“Help?”

How can you ask an old person if they’re lucid enough to take care of themselves? You can’t. I said, “Up the stairs, I mean.”

His eyes traced the curving staircase to his looming home like it was the on-ramp to an alien spaceship.

“Yes,” he said, “I think you better make sure I get in there. And take this—” He nervously pushed the gun into my hands. “I got no business being near this thing.”