"So what brings you to Peg's neighborhood, Mr. Kurtz?" The security man's tone wasn't aggressive, just pleasantly curious.

"I bet you can tell me," said Kurtz. This guy drives a Porsche 911 Turbo. He's a member of that club that Tom Wolfe called "Masters of the Universe."

Kennedy nodded, thought a minute, and said, "You still think like a private investigator. You've been working through some things about the shooting and wonder if there's a clue in Peg's house."

Kurtz widened his eyes slightly as if in awe of Kennedy's ratiocination.

"But you weren't thinking about breaking in, were you, Mr. Kurtz?" Kennedy's white smile took the edge off the question. It was a smile, Kurtz thought, that could honestly be called "infectious." Kurtz hated things that infected other things.

Kurtz smiled back, with no fear of his chagrined smirk being thought of as infectious. "Naw. I had enough prison time in Attica. I was just in the neighborhood and was… as you say… thinking about the shooting."

I always used to stand outside victims' homes and try to pick up on psychic vibes when I was a licensed P.I., thought Kurtz but didn't articulate this coda. It might be gilding the lily a bit, even for someone as self-satisfiedly obtuse as Brian Kennedy.

"Want to come in?" said Kennedy, tossing a ring of keys in the air. "I was just picking up some insurance stuff and legal papers that the hospital wanted. I don't think Peg would have minded if you just step in a minute while I'm here."

Kurtz picked up on the past-tense in that last sentence. Had O'Toole died? The last he'd heard, she was on life support.

"Sure," he said and followed Kennedy into the building.

"So what did O'Toole's apartment look like?" said Arlene when Kurtz was back in the office later that waning Saturday afternoon. "Any clues lying around?"

"Just clues to her personality," said Kurtz.

"Such as?" said Arlene. She flicked ashes into her ashtray.

Kurtz walked to the window. It had grown colder and darker and begun to rain again. Even though it was an hour from official sunset, the streetlights had come on along Chippewa and the headlights and taillights of passing cars reflected on the wet asphalt.

"Such as the place was neat and clean and tilled with art," said Kurtz. "Not a lot of original art—she couldn't have afforded that on her probation officer salary—but tasteful stuff, and more small original oil paintings and sculptures than most people would collect. And books. Lots of books. Mostly paperbacks but all of them looked like they'd been read, not just leather-bound crap to look good on the shelves, but real books. Fiction, nonfiction, classics."

"No real clues then," said Arlene.

Kurtz shook his head, turned back to the room, and sipped some Starbucks coffee he'd picked up. He'd brought a cup for Arlene, and she was drinking hers between puffs on her Marlboro. "She had a laptop on her desk," said Kurtz. "And two low filing cabinets. But obviously I couldn't look through them with Kennedy there."

"Weird that he let you come in with him," said Arlene. "He must be the most guileless security expert in the world…"

"Or too crafty for his own good," said Kurtz. "He made tea for us."

"How nicely domestic," said Arlene. "Made himself right at home in Ms. O'Toole's townhouse, huh?"

Kurtz shrugged. "He told me that he'd been staying there with her when he was in Buffalo every few weeks. I saw some of his suits and blazers in a closet."

"He let you wander into her bedroom?"

"He was grabbing some stuff," said Kurtz. "I just stood in the doorway."

"Fiancés," said Arlene, using the tone that other people did when they said "Kids.Whaddyagonnado?" She nodded toward her computer screen where the names of WeddingBells-dot-com clients were stacked like cordwood.

"The question remains, why'd he invite me up?" said Kurtz, turning back to watch the traffic move through the cold October rain. "He asked me what I was doing there, but then he gave the answer—as if he didn't really want to press me on it. Why would he do that? Why wasn't he pissed—or at least suspicious—when he found me hanging around outside O'Toole's townhouse?"

"Good question," said Arlene.

He turned away from the window. "Do you know any Yemeni?"

Arlene stared at him. "Do you mean any Yemeni people?"

"No, I mean the language," said Kurtz.

Arlene smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. "I think Arabic is the language spoken in Yemen. Some of them speak Farsi, I think, but Arabic is the dominant language."

Kurtz rubbed his aching head. "Yeah. All right. Do you speak any Arabic that a Yemeni would understand?"

"Al-Ghasla," said Arlene. "Thowb Al-Zfag, Al-Subhia."

"You made that up," said Kurtz.

Arlene shook her head. "Three kinds of wedding dresses—the dress of the eve of the wedding, Al-Ghasla, the bridal gown, Thwob-Al-Zfag, and the gown of the day following the wedding, Al-Subhia. I just helped a client from Utica order all three from a Yemeni dressmaker in Manhattan."

"Well, I guess that'll do," said Kurtz. "I'll bring little Aysha here on Monday night and you two can discuss wedding dresses. She doesn't know she's a widow even before she's married."

Arlene stared at him until he explained about Baby Doc's phone call.

"That's really sad," said Arlene, lighting another Marlboro. "Do you really think that she can tell you anything about what Yasein Goba was doing? She's been in Canada."

Kurtz shrugged. "Maybe we won't even be able to understand each other, but if I don't meet her up in Niagara Falls tomorrow night, no one else is going to. Baby Doc's people have washed their hands of her. She's just going to get picked up by the cops sooner or later and shipped back to Yemen by the INS."

"So you pick her up tomorrow night and try to talk to her," said Arlene. "And can't. What then? Sign language?"

"Any ideas?"

"Yes," said Arlene. "I know some people through my church who take part in a sort of underground railroad helping illegal immigrants get into the States."

"Goba's already had that part arranged," said Kurtz.

Arlene shook her head. "No, I mean I'll get in touch with the guy who helps the immigrants—Nicky—at church tomorrow, he'll call one of the Yemeni people they use to translate, and they can help us talk to the girl."

"All right," said Kurtz. "Get your friend's translator here early Monday morning."

"Can't it wait until later?" asked Arlene. "This woman—Aysha? — can sleep at my place Sunday and we can meet with the translator on Monday."

"Monday's Halloween," said Kurtz, as if that explained anything.

"So?"

He considered telling her about Toma Gonzaga's promise to murder him at midnight on Halloween if he hadn't solved the don's junkie-killer problem. He considered it for about five microseconds. "I have things to do on Halloween," he said.

"All right, early Monday morning," said Arlene. She came over to the window and joined him in looking out at the rain. It was getting dark in earnest now. "Some people just don't get a break, do they, Joe?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this Aysha will wake up tomorrow morning thinking she'll be meeting her fiancé in a new country that night, that she'll be a wife and maybe a U.S. citizen, and that everything is working out for her. Instead, she'll hear that her fiancé is dead and that she's a stranger in a strange land."

"Yeah, well…" said Kurtz.

"Are you going to tell her that you killed him? Goba?"

Kurtz looked at his secretary. Her eyes were dry—she wasn't going soppy on him—but her gaze was focused on something far away.