Remy stared at the notebook before him. Should he be writing any of this down? That Ann Rogers doesn’t like caffeine? That she has a streak in her hair? He had the sense that any detail would become important if he wrote it down, that its importance would be determined by the record he kept.

“March and I hit it off right away, right after she moved into the building… oh… I don’t know, almost a year ago.” Ann Rogers ran her hand over her hair. “We’d meet in the hallway every day on our way to work. Sometimes we shared a cab. Or we’d walk to the subway together. We both rode downtown, although she went twice as far as me. It was amazing, really. We never said, Hey, let’s meet at this time or let’s meet at that time. It just happened. I’d step outside my apartment to get something to eat and March would be there, and she’d be going out to eat at the exact same time. It was amazing, if you think about it.”

Remy thought about it. “I guess so.”

Ann Rogers shrugged. “Anyway, that particular day, we caught our train, sat next to each other. We talked about the weather, our weekends, and then we got to the Union Square station and I got off. And that was it. I imagine she kept going downtown.”

The second question read: Unusual?

“Anything,” Remy said, “unusual about that day?”

“Hmm. Let me see. Oh, you know what. There was this one thing. About three thousand people died. Yeah. Including my best friend. And I haven’t been able to leave my fucking apartment or turn off my fucking TV since then. But otherwise, no, I’d say it was just like every other peachy fucking day.”

“No, I’m sorry, I…” Remy looked down. “I guess what I mean is… that morning. There was nothing unusual about that morning? Before? She didn’t say anything before…”

“Oh, sorry. Hmm. Let me think. Oh yeah, now that you mention it, she did say that she had a bad feeling she was going to burn to death in an inferno.”

Remy shifted in his chair. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, Ms. Rogers.”

Ann Rogers stared at him. Flat.

Remy looked back at his notes. Question three: Seeing anyone? He took a breath. “Do you know if she was seeing anyone?”

“Seeing?”

“Romantically.”

“Who did she fuck? Is that what you’re asking me, Mr. Remy? Who did March fuck? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Look, Ms. Rogers, I-”

“You want to know who banged my neighbor?”

“I guess…”

“Then why don’t you just ask that, you fucking pervert?”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t. You asked if she was seeing someone. I’m seeing you right now, but you’re not fucking me. Or are you? Are you fucking me, Mr. Remy? Is this as good as it gets with you?”

“Look, I…”

“Do you want me to tell you who she saw or who she fucked?”

“The latter, I guess.”

“The latter? What’s the matter with you? Say it. Say it, you piece of shit. Say, Excuse me Ms. Rogers, but who did your neighbor fuck?”

“Who did your neighbor fuck?”

“Oh my God! None of your business, you fucking pervert.”

Remy felt dizzy. “Look, I don’t know how this has gotten so-”

“What makes you think I would even know that? We were neighbors. I can tell you she didn’t fuck me. Does that help? You want a full list of all the people who haven’t fucked me? Is that what you want? Because I’ll get some paper and get started.”

Remy cleared his throat. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot or something. There’s no reason-”

“No reason to what? No reason to be upset? What… are you asleep? Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you seen what’s happening out there?”

Remy tried to soldier on. He looked at the next question: That night. “That night… did you hear or see anything… anyone in her apartment?”

“Fuck fuck fuck! Screw hump dick lay! Fuck fuck fuck! There. Are you happy, Mr. Remy? Does that turn you on, you freak?”

Next question: Bishir.

“Did you know a man named Bishir Madain?”

She waved him off like an insect. “Fuck fuck fuck! She didn’t come home! Fuck fuck fuck! Are you happy, pervert? Fuck fuck fuck!”

Remy closed his notebook. “Maybe we’ll try this some other time, Ms. Rogers.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, and then turned back to the TV. She reached for her remote control and the sound came up, the guy in coveralls: “…abrasive substances will work, although traditional sandpaper is still…”

Remy started for the door, but paused. “Why did she live all the way up here?”

Ann Rogers jerked her thumb across the remote control, barely able to contain her disgust. “What do you want from me? Are you trying to get me to confess or something?”

“No,” Remy said, “I was just wondering…” What was he wondering? “March worked in the financial district-”

“Yes. You know she did. That’s why she died, you fuckhead pervert scumbag.”

Remy ignored her. “And she lived all the way up here? In this building? On a paralegal’s salary? That doesn’t make any sense. She could have found the same space over the river for a third the price. Where’d she get the money for this?”

Ann Rogers seemed calm, suddenly. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying,” she said.

Remy held his hands out. “What am I implying?”

“Aren’t you implying something?”

“Honestly,” Remy said, “I have no idea.”

Ann Rogers reached for the remote control, cocked her arm and threw it at-

THE GUY standing in the doorway was in his late thirties, the fat settling between knees and shoulders, a week’s growth coming in gray. Expensive haircut. He wore black slacks and a black T-shirt. He was barefoot. “Yes?”

Remy removed his hand from the doorbell and looked around. It was a nice house, two stories, blue-gray, with a square patch of new sod in front and a kid’s bike leaning against the Lexus in the driveway. He looked down the block. Every house was the same, as far as he could see, like dominoes, each one with an American flag tipped from the porch.

“Can I help you?” asked the guy.

“…I don’t know.” Remy’s badge was in the hand he’d used to ring the bell, so he showed it to the man, hoping one of them would know how to proceed. “Um, I’m sorry, but… do you… where am I?”

The guy just stared. “Englewood Cliffs.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What can I do for you?”

Remy looked down. In his other hand was the planner he’d found at The Zero. G. Addich’s day planner. Ah. “What’s your name?”

The guy pulled back just a bit. “Tony Addich. Why?”

“Oh. I found this.” Remy held out the thick black book. “I’m glad you’re all right. I didn’t know if you-”

Addich stared at the planner as if it were a ghost.

“It looked like there were a lot of meetings in there,” Remy said.

The man didn’t say anything.

Remy tried to appear nonchalant, as if they were sharing a laugh waiting for the subway. “It’s funny. When I found this, I thought to myself… what did we do at all those meetings? I used to have a lot of meetings, and now… I have no idea what we talked about.” He tried to laugh this off, just two guys talking about how important things can suddenly become trivial, but the whole thing came out shallow and raw.

The man just stared at the planner. “That’s my father’s,” he said. “Gerald Addich. How did you get it?”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Remy. “Is your father-”

“No. He’s not here right now.”

“But he’s…”

“He’s fine. He’s at a senior citizen function. I think they went to a casino.” Tony Addich took the planner and looked through it. He shook his head. “He used to work for the city, in the sixties. He’s retired now. Suffers from dementia.”

“Yeah,” Remy said. “But see, I found this at-”

“Yes, thank you,” said Tony Addich, and he closed the door in Remy’s face.

Remy stood on the porch for a minute. He looked around the neighborhood again. Should he knock on the door again? Ask who his father knew named Remy? All of a sudden he wished he’d kept the-