She listened, then suddenly looked over at us, frowning. “Yes, I know Irene Kelly,” she said into the phone. “She’s my grandniece. She’s sitting here right now, with her husband-did I tell you he’s a homicide detective, too? Oh, I did. Yes, he’s the one. Well, let me ask them.”

She covered the mouthpiece. “Detective McCain is a homicide detective with the LAPD. He wants to know if he can come over to talk with you.”

People who got their ideas about detectives from television probably would have been disappointed in Detective Jim McCain. He was gray-haired, plain-faced, a little thick in the waist, but-we quickly realized- not between the ears. He was of medium height and stood up straight, his posture neither ramrod nor slouched. He didn’t smoke, didn’t wear a fedora or a crumpled raincoat. His shoes had seen better days, but had leather soles, and while his suit wasn’t an Armani, it was still neat and clean. He didn’t look as if he had punched or shot anyone lately. He smiled warmly when Mary opened her door, thanked her politely when she let him in. I decided his voice, soft and low, was one of his assets. It was a voice that invited confidences.

He was still smiling when his dark blue eyes rested on Frank and me, but they widened slightly when Mary introduced Frank.

“Harriman?” he said, with a note of recognition.

“Yes,” Frank answered. I could see him tensing, waiting for the inevitable questions: Were you the hostage? Just how did that go down? How did they manage to get the drop on you? Questions he had been asked just about a billion times.

But instead, McCain extended a hand and said, “An honor to meet you. Glad you came out of that okay.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, obviously relieved.

McCain turned to me and shook hands as we were introduced-smiling, polite and sizing me up. What the verdict was, I’m not sure.

Once he was seated and had resisted all of Mary’s offers of food and beverage, he took out a little notebook, turned to me and said, “Ms. Kelly, I assume your aunt Mary has told you that I’m investigating the death of Briana Maguire?”

“Yes.”

“She was your mother’s sister?”

I nodded.

“And when was the last time you saw her?”

“Over twenty years ago. At my mother’s funeral, when I was twelve.”

“Not since then?”

“No.”

“Any other type of contact with your aunt since then?”

“No.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Frank sit forward.

“No phone calls?” McCain asked.

“No. No phone calls, no letters, no contact at all.”

He said nothing, just watched me. I didn’t try to fill the silence, but Mary did. “I explained all that to you,” she said.

He smiled. “Is there a room where I could talk to Ms. Kelly alone?”

“Perhaps she should talk to you another time,” Frank said. “In the presence of an attorney.”

McCain’s smile didn’t waver. “She is, of course, absolutely free to do so, but right now, I’m just asking questions. You know how this goes, Harriman. Lawyers cause unnecessary complications, just to make their clients think they’ve earned their fee. I don’t need that kind of grief, and neither do you. Better this way. None of us would ever get a thing done in this line of work without a little cooperation.”

I knew this last didn’t necessarily refer only to my cooperation with him; I could see from Frank’s face that he got the hint as well-McCain was saying, You want cooperation from LAPD on any of your cases, don’t screw with our cases.

“I’ll talk to him, Frank,” I said.

“What brings my wife into this?” Frank asked, ignoring me.

“I’ll be happy to tell you in a moment,” he said. “Just a few more questions, Ms. Kelly? In fact, if your husband wants to be present-”

“I get the picture,” Mary said. “I’ll go into the kitchen.”

He thanked her and stood as she rose to leave the room. She laughed and made some remark about courtly manners, then shut the door between the two rooms.

Frank, I could see, was still wary.

“Now, where were we?” McCain said, flipping though his notes. “Oh, yes. Well, let’s skip the family history for the moment.”

He flipped back a few pages in his notebook and said, “You drive a Karmann Ghia convertible?”

So he had run a DMV check on me. And Briana was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Didn’t take a genius to figure out where this was headed. “Yes, I drive a Karmann Ghia. It’s at home in our driveway, without any damage to the front end.”

He smiled again. Now Frank was smiling, too.

“He’s probably got someone over at the house, taking a look at it right now,” Frank said.

He nodded. “And I had a look at the Volvo on the way in. But neither of your cars matches the description witnesses gave of the vehicle that struck your aunt, Ms. Kelly.”

“Which was?”

“Sorry, I’d prefer not to say. It’s an open case, Ms. Kelly, and for the moment we have all the detectives we need on it.”

Polite or no, the guy was starting to irritate me.

“Do you remember what you were doing the morning of Wednesday the eighteenth?” he asked. “That’s two weeks ago.”

“Working. I work for the Las Piernas News-Express.”

“You were in the office?”

“Yes. Most weeks, on Tuesday nights, I cover the city council meetings. I turn in what I can on Tuesday night, but if the meeting goes later than my final deadline or some item needs a follow-up, I write about it on Wednesday.”

“And you’re certain you were writing about the city council meeting on that Wednesday morning?”

“Yes. Two weeks ago they took the final vote on the sale of some park land. It was hotly debated. The meeting ran late.”

“You don’t get to sleep in on Wednesdays after covering evening meetings?”

“Sometimes. I’ve worked at the paper for a number of years, so I’m not punching a clock. In general, I get to decide how I use my time- provided I meet my deadlines. As long as I continue to produce my stories on time, no one will hassle me much. But that day I needed to contact some sources I can only reach during business hours, so I showed up at about eight that morning. Lots of people can verify that.”

“What brings Irene into this?” Frank asked again. “For more than twenty years, she’s had no contact with this aunt. She didn’t even learn that Briana Maguire had died until a little more than an hour ago.”

McCain seemed surprised. “Your aunt Mary didn’t tell you before today?”

“No.”

“Ms. Kelly, what are your expectations of Ms. Maguire’s estate?”

“Expectations?” I asked, taken aback. “From Briana? Why, absolutely none.”

“But you were a favorite niece, weren’t you?”

“Look, about two dozen years have gone by since I last saw her. There was a family quarrel, even before her other troubles started.”

“Other troubles?”

“You undoubtedly know which ones I mean.”

He paused, then said, “Yes, your aunt Mary has been very helpful. Ms. Kelly, several times your husband has asked me what brings you into this matter. Are you aware that your aunt left a will?”

“No. As I said-”

“Yes, yes. But she did leave a will, Ms. Kelly. A holographic will. You know what that means?”

“A will written entirely in her handwriting,” I said.

“Yes. We found it today, among the papers in her apartment.”

“She died two weeks ago and you just searched her apartment today?”

“Keep in mind that we didn’t know who she was until a few days ago, Ms. Kelly. Our first concern was to find someone who could provide positive identification of the victim and claim her body, someone who could arrange for her burial. Given our caseloads in this division, I don’t think we’ve done too badly.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. So you found a handwritten will leaving everything to her son-”

“Oh, no, Ms. Kelly. Nothing was left to her son.”