He handed me a sheaf of papers. Several seemed to be articles that Emily had been working on at the time of her death. Mike and I could read those later.

The last page was a draft of a letter to Sally Brandon-still incomplete-dated just days before Upshaw's murder. Emily's daughter, given up at birth and raised by Sally, had recently sent for her original birth certificate in order to apply for a passport. From that, the girl learned the truth-that Emily was her mother. She had called to ask if she could come to New York, on her own, so they could meet.

In the letter, Emily Upshaw revealed this startling new development to her sister, and also said that she had called Noah Tormey a week earlier, to tell him that she needed to see him.

The man who opened the door at the East Fifty-fifth Street brown-stone to Mike, Mercer, and me later that afternoon was seated in a wheelchair. Mercer identified himself and asked if we could step inside.

"And who might you be looking for, Detective?"

"I'm not certain of that, but we'd like to start with you."

The man pushed back from the door and admitted us. "I'm Zeldin. Does that help the three of you?"

"Actually," Mike said, "we're interested in something called the Raven Society. Do you know it?"

Zeldin smiled broadly. "Please come in and sit down. I'm always happy to talk about that."

I recognized the Southern accent that I had heard on the answering machine message when I pressed the recall button on Dr. Ichiko's phone the night of his death.

He swiveled the chair and led us into a room that had been rebuilt in the old town house space to accommodate an enormous library. Hundreds of leather-bound books and modern first editions in plastic-covered dust jackets lined the walls. We drew three of the chairs together so that we were close to our host.

"Mr. Zeldin," Mike started, "is that a surname or-"

"It's just what it is. Zeldin. No 'mister,' no other name."

There was no question this man would be quirky. He was dressed in a dark burgundy smoking jacket over a pair of nicely tailored gray slacks. The expensive hairpiece had been purchased long enough ago that it didn't match the new patch of gray growth coming in around its owner's ears. Zeldin was probably close to sixty, but had fine skin that gave him a more youthful appearance. The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album was playing on his sound system and there was a strong scent of burning incense overlaying what I guessed were the remains of a sweet-smelling marijuana cigarette.

"We have some questions about the society. In fact, we don't know anything at all about it."

"I should hope not. We're not known for our inclusivity, Detective." He looked at each of our faces. "Am I allowed to ask what brings you here?"

"A phone call from a dead man," Mike said.

Zeldin was no longer smiling. "Who do you mean?"

"What's your telephone number?"

Zeldin's answer was the number Mike had taken off the cell phone.

"Who is it that called you yesterday? Probably late afternoon, maybe a bit earlier."

"I wasn't at home, Detective. I spent the day in my office. I've taken an early retirement, but I've kept an office and I go in to it from time to time."

"Do you have an answering machine here?"

"Indeed. You can check it yourself. The only messages yesterday were from my rare book dealer and one hang-up call. Perhaps it's the latter you're referring to. Perhaps it was a wrong number."

We could check the length of the call from telephone records to determine whether it was true that the call was a hang-up, by its short duration.

"What's the name of the dead man?"

"He was a doctor," Mike said. "Wo-Jin Ichiko."

Zeldin scratched his head, gently enough not to shift the position of the rug. "I don't know that name."

"The news story today-the one about the man who died in the Bronx River?"

"Yes, I heard about that, but I didn't know the fellow. My office, in fact, is in the Bronx."

I hesitated asking what condition confined Zeldin to a wheelchair and wondered whether he was remotely capable of sending someone to his death at a rugged crime scene. But there would be time for Mike and Mercer to come back to that.

"Why don't we start at the beginning. What is the Raven Society?" I asked.

Zeldin wheeled himself to a cabinet and opened the door to reveal a wet bar, constructed at the height of his chair. "A glass of wine, anyone?"

We all declined and waited while he poured himself some Burgundy.

"The society was formed a century ago to honor Edgar Allan Poe on the fiftieth anniversary of his death. It was conceived as a secret society, membership by invitation only-just a scholarly tribute to the great poet. It was limited to five members."

"Five? That's a pretty minuscule society," Mike said.

"Unlike many writers of that period, who never achieved fame until long after their deaths, Poe was recognized for his genius during his lifetime, here and abroad. But he suffered so many tragedies during his short time on this earth-so many personal indignities- that when he died, there were only five men to take him to his grave. Five-including the minister who presided over the burial. It seemed, at the time, a fitting number to honor him."

"And now?" I asked.

"Still by invitation only, Miss Cooper. Now there are twenty-five."

"All in New York?"

"Oh, no. But about two-thirds of them are here."

"What are the criteria for membership?"

"We look for scholars, Detective. Not necessarily academics, but people who have immersed themselves in Poe and know his body of work. The poems, the stories, the literary criticism. Aficionados of the master."

"And do you meet?"

"From time to time, certainly. Dinners for the most part. Lectures and other events marking significant dates or new research."

"Would you be willing to give us a list of your members' names?" I asked.

Zeldin hesitated. "That would not be my decision to make. I'm merely the secretary of the society at the moment. I would have to ask-"

Mike interrupted him. "You're right that it's not your decision to make. We're in the middle of a murder investigation. I think it's gonna be Ms. Cooper who decides. Along with the grand jury."

Zeldin sipped his wine. "I don't mean to be obstreperous, Mr. Chapman. We shy away from publicity. Of course we'd be only too keen to help with your work, but I'd like some assurance that all this won't be material for the headlines."

"It's not likely that any of it will be made public," I said.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you know about the skeleton at Poe House," Zeldin said, smiling as he drew a reaction from each of us, "and whether this man's death-Ichiko, is that his name?-is connected to the finding of those bones?"

"How about you go first?" Mike said. "What do you know about the skeleton?"

"I told you, Detective. Poe is our life's work. The society was part of-how do you say it in the law, Ms. Cooper?-part of the amicus brief to oppose the destruction of the old building by the university. I was naturally very interested to read that someone's remains had been discovered there."

"Why is that site so important to you?" Mercer asked.

Zeldin sighed. "From a historical point of view, and a cultural one, the places any great man lived should be preserved. In January of 1845, 'The Raven' was published. It brought Poe enormous acclaim, of course, and the fame he'd been longing for. It was that very same year he moved into the building on Third Street from uptown-from Brennan's farm in the West Eighties.

"You've seen that place? Can you imagine what works, what brilliant writings were created in those tiny, inhospitable rooms he rented?" Zeldin paused. "But then I suppose you care nothing about that. It's what keeps you in business."