A banner out in front advertised king-size beds, color TV, and discount coupons to happy hour at someplace called the Golden Goose. The lobby was red-carpeted, furnished with vending machines selling combs and maps and keychains with Disney characters on the fobs. The black clerk at the counter ignored me as I strolled down the white-block hall. Fast-food cartons had been left outside several of the red doors that lined the corridor. The air was hot and salty, though we were miles from the ocean. Room 129 was at the back.

Milo answered my knock, looking weary.

No progress, or something else?

The room was small and boxy, the decor surprisingly cheery: twin beds under blue quilted floral covers that appeared new, floating-mallard prints above the headboard, a fake-colonial writing desk sporting a Bible and a phone book, a pair of hard-padded armchairs, nineteen-inch TV mounted on the wall. Two black nylon suitcases were placed neatly in one corner. Two closed plywood doors, chipped at the bottom, faced the bed. Closet and bathroom.

The woman perched on a corner of the nearer bed had the too-good posture of paralyzing grief. Handsome, early sixties, cold-waved hair the color of weak lemonade, white pearlescent glasses on a gold chain around her neck, conservative makeup. She wore a chocolate-brown dress with a pleated bottom, and white pique collar and cuffs. Brown shoes and purse. Diamond-chip engagement ring, thin gold wedding band, gold scallop-shell earrings.

She turned toward me. Firm, angular features held their own against gravity. The resemblance to Claire was striking, and I thought of the matron Claire would never become.

Milo made the introductions. Ernestine Argent and I said "Pleased to meet you" at exactly the same time. One side of her mouth twitched upward; then her lips jammed shut-a smile reflex dying quickly. I shook a cold, dry hand. A toilet flushed behind one of the plywood doors and she returned her hands to her lap. On the bed nearby was a white linen handkerchief folded into a triangle.

The door opened and a man, drying his hands with a hand towel, struggled to emerge.

Working at it because he could barely fit through the doorway.

No more than five-seven, he had to weigh close to four hundred pounds, a pink egg dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, gray slacks, white athletic shoes. The bathroom was narrow and he had to edge past the sink to get out. Breathing deeply, he winced, took several small steps, finally squeezed through. The effort reddened his face. Folding the towel, he tossed it onto the counter and stepped forward very slowly, rocking from side to side, like a barge in choppy water.

The trousers were spotless poly twill, held up by clip-on suspenders. The athletic shoes appeared crushed. Each step made something in his pocket jingle.

He was around the same age as his wife, had a full head of dark, curly hair, a fine, almost delicate nose, a full-lipped mouth pouched by bladder cheeks. Three chins, shaved close. Brown eyes nearly buried in flesh managed to project a pinpoint intensity. He looked at his wife, studied me, continued to lumber.

Mentally paring away adipose, I was able to visualize handsome structure. He pressed forward, perspiring, breathing hard and raspy. When he reached me, he stopped, swayed, righted himself, stuck out a ham-hock arm.

His hands were smallish, his grip dry and strong.

"Robert Ray Argent." A deep, wheezy voice, like a bass on reverb, issued from the echo chamber of his enormous body cavity. For a second, I imagined him hollow, inflated. But that fantasy faded as I watched him struggle to get to the nearer bed. Every step sounded on the thin carpeting, each limb seemed to shimmy of its own accord. His forehead was beaded, dripping. I resisted the urge to take his elbow.

His wife got up with the handkerchief and wiped his brow.

He touched her hand for an instant. "Thanks, honey."

"Sit down, Rob Ray."

Both of them with that soft, distinctive Pittsburgh drawl.

Moving slowly, bending deliberately, he lowered himself. The mattress sank down to the box spring and creaked. The box spring nearly touched the carpet. Rob Ray Argent sat, spread-legged, inner thighs touching. The gray fabric of his pants stretched shiny over dimpled knees, pulled up taut over a giant pumpkin of a belly.

He inhaled a few times, cleared his throat, put his hand to his mouth, and coughed. His wife stared off at the open bathroom door before walking over, closing it, sitting back down.

"So," he said. "You're a psychologist, like Claire." Dark circles under his armpits.

"Yes," I said.

He nodded, as if we'd reached some agreement. Sighed and placed his hands on the apex of his abdomen.

Ernestine Argent reached over and handed him the handkerchief and he dabbed at himself some more. She pulled another white triangle from her purse and pecked at her own eyes.

Milo said, "I was just telling Mr. and Mrs. Argent about the course of the investigation."

Ernestine gave a small, involuntary cry.

"Honey," Robert Ray said.

She said, "I'm okay, darling," almost inaudibly, and turned to me. "Claire loved psychology."

I nodded.

"She was all we ever really had."

Rob Ray looked at her. Parts of his face had turned plum-colored; other sections were pink, beige, white-apple-peel mottle caused by the variable blood flow through expanses of skin. He turned to Milo. "Doesn't sound like you've learned much. What's the chance you find the devil who did it?"

"I'm always optimistic, sir. The more you and Mrs. Argent can tell us about Claire, the better our chances."

"What else can we tell you?" said Ernestine. "No one disliked Claire; she was the nicest person."

She cried. Rob Ray touched her shoulder with his hand.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "This isn't helping. What do you need to know?"

"Well," said Milo, "let's get a basic time frame, for starters. When was the last time you saw Claire?"

"Christmas," said Rob Ray. "She always came home for Christmas. We always had a nice family time, no exception last Christmas. She helped her mother with the cooking. Said in L.A. she never cooked, too busy, just ate things out of cans, takeout."

Consistent with the kitchen at Cape Horn Drive.

"Christmas," said Milo. "Haifa year ago."

"That's right." Rob Ray flexed his left foot.

"That would be right around the time Claire left County Hospital and moved to Starkweather Hospital."

"Guess so."

Milo said, "Did she talk about changing jobs?"

Headshakes.

"Nothing at all?"

More silence.

Ernestine said, "She never talked about her work in specifics. We never wanted to be nosy."

They hadn't known. I watched Milo hide his amazement. Rob Ray tried to shift his weight on the bed. One leg cooperated.

Milo said, "Did Claire talk about any sort of problems she might be having? Someone who was giving her difficulty-at work or anywhere else?"

"No," said Rob Ray. "She had no enemies. That I can tell you for sure."

"How did she act during her Christmas visit?"

"Fine. Normal. Christmas was always a happy time for us. She was happy to be home, we enjoyed having her."

"How long did she stay?"

"Four days, like always. We went to a bunch of movies; she loved her movies. Saw the Pittsburgh Ice Extravaganza, too. When she was a little girl, she skated. The last day, she came into our store, helped us out a bit-we're in giftware, have to stay open somewhat during the holiday season."

"Movies," I said. Joseph Stargill had said the same thing.

"That's right-the whole family loves 'em," said Rob Ray.

"She was happy, had no problems," said Ernestine. "The only problem for us was we didn't see her enough. But we understood, what with her career. And travel's hard for us. The business."