‘When you’ve done that, shut up and go home.’ I told her.
‘What are you doing ?’
‘I’m digging a little more. The night’s young yet.’
‘Don’t be reckless, will you, Vic?’
I said I’d handle myself as carefully as I’d handle a Ming vase, and hung up before she could ask any more questions.
I got into the Buick again and drove to Monte Verde Avenue. No. 245 was, as Myra Toresca had said, a small, painted bungalow with crazy paving where the garden should have been and a high, overgrown hedge to foil inquisitive neighbours.
I parked the Buick outside, pushed open the low wooden gate and walked up the path. A light showed in one of the windows; a shadow crossed the blind as I rapped on the front door.
The door opened a few inches. Myra asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Malloy.’
She slid off the chain, opened the door. The passage behind her was dark.