“Marcus, for God’s sake,” Lucius seethed, “we can talk about this at home!”

“Oh, sure,” Marcus mumbled, straightening his jacket and smoothing back his thick hair. “When you can bring Mama into it.”

“Meaning?” Lucius asked in some shock.

“She’ll take your side. She always does, because she can’t stand to hurt your feelings. Sure, she’ll tell you she always loved to listen to you recite. But she was actually bored stiff. Trust me-she used to say so when you weren’t around.”

“Why, you-!” Lucius started; but then the elevator reached the sixth floor and bumped to its usual weighty stop. The sign that Sara’d had painted on the door seemed to jolt the brothers back to adult reality, and they both fell silent, dropping the whole thing as suddenly as they’d picked it up. As for Cyrus and me, it’d been all we could do to keep from laughing out loud during the elevator ride. But as we stepped back into the old headquarters, seriousness of purpose returned to us, too.

We found Mr. Moore, Miss Howard, and the señora more or less where we’d left them, though it was clear from the way that Mr. Moore had drawn a chair up close to the Linares woman and was listening to her intently that she’d made quite an impression on him. A large part of that, of course, was Mr. Moore’s always being an easy mark for a charming lady-and Señora Linares definitely had charm, even through the scars, the bruises, and the veil, which she’d pulled back down over her face. Miss Howard, meanwhile, paced and smoked, horrified, I think, not only at the violence that had been done to this woman but at how often such violence was done to so many other women, rich and poor, without their being able to do a damned thing about it.

Señora Linares watched the Isaacsons enter the office with the same uneasiness she’d displayed on first meeting the rest of us, but Mr. Moore stepped in quickly to put her at her ease.

“Señora, these are the men I was telling you about. The finest pair of detectives in the entire New York City Police Department. Despite their official capacities, however, their discretion may be completely relied on.” He then looked up with a grin to shake hands with Lucius and Marcus. “Hello, boys. Bad doings on the waterfront, I hear.”

“John,” Marcus answered, returning the smile with a nod.

“Just another murder that looks unsolvable to Hogan’s crew,” Lucius added. “Though if you ask me, it’s a simple case of-”

“Yes, but they didn’t ask you, did they?” Marcus said, at which Lucius shot him a final look promising true rage if he went on. Marcus let it go and turned to give Miss Howard a polite but very sincere hug. “Hello, Sara. You look wonderful.”

“You’re an excellent liar, Marcus,” she answered. Then she went over to give Lucius a peck on the cheek, knowing that he’d never dare get physical with her on his own. “Hello, Lucius.”

The peck brought a flush to the younger Isaacson’s whole head, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Oh! Why, hello, Sara. It’s-it’s wonderful to see you.”

“I wish the circumstances could be happier,” Miss Howard answered, turning to her guest. “Gentlemen, this is Señora Isabella Linares.”

Both the Isaacsons’ eyebrows went up. “The wife of Consul Baldasano’s private secretary?” Marcus asked quietly.

The señora only nodded slightly; Mr. Moore, for his part, turned away, shook his head and mumbled, “I am a reporter, I really ought to know these things…” Then, aloud to the Isaacsons, he went on, “Listen-why don’t I take you fellows into the back for a cup of coffee. Fill you in.”

The detective sergeants, confused but intrigued, readily agreed and went along. The rest of us were left with a slightly awkward moment, which Miss Howard, ever skillful at such things, stepped in to smooth. “Cyrus? The señora said that she very much admired your playing. Perhaps you know something from her homeland?”

“No,” the señora said, gratefully but with purpose. “No, señor, I am-in no mood for such melodies. And memories… the tune you played, it was of your people?”

“It’s an American folk melody,” Cyrus explained, moving back to the piano and sitting. “Like most of its kind, it doesn’t belong to any one people.”

“It was so moving, truly,” the señora answered. “Might I hear another?”

Cyrus inclined his head, considered the matter for a moment, and then softly began to play the old tune “Lorena.” The Linares woman sat back in her chair and sighed heavily, just listening for a few minutes. Then she put a hand on Miss Howard’s arm. “I pray we are doing the right thing, Miss Howard. And I pray that I am not, in fact, mad.”

“You’re not,” Miss Howard answered firmly. “I’ve had some-experience with lunatics.”

“Your Señor Moore, he seems less certain.”

“It’s his way. He’s a journalist. They come in two varieties, cynics and liars. He’s of the first group.”

Señora Linares managed a small, painful chuckle at that, and then Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons returned to the room. Marcus paused at the drapery-covered pool table and set the instrument satchel down on it. As he then moved further toward us with Mr. Moore, Lucius opened the satchel and began to carefully lay out the gleaming tools that were inside it.

Marcus stood by Miss Howard, while Mr. Moore crouched by the Linares woman. “Señora, in order for us to help you, we must be sure of several things: first, the extent of the injuries to your face and skull, and second, the details of what happened in Central Park and at the El station. With your permission, these men will examine those injuries and ask you some questions. You may find it tedious-but I assure you, it is necessary.”

Another heavy sigh came from Señora Linares, and then she sat forward, lifted her veil, and removed her hat altogether, saying only, “Very well.”

Marcus immediately fetched a standing electrical desk lamp from nearby, placed its shade above the señora’s head and face, and then spoke softly: “You may want to close your eyes, ma’am.” She complied, shutting the one lid that she could move, and then he switched on the bright light.

Seeing her injuries, Marcus’s face tightened into a wince-and mind you, this was a man who’d just been studying a body that’d been decapitated, dismembered, and sawed in half. The woman really was a wicked mess.

Lucius joined his brother, holding several medical and measuring instruments, some of which he handed to Marcus. Though Cyrus’s attention was riveted on the scene taking place under the little half shell of bright light in the center of the room, he kept on playing, sensing that it was calming Señora Linares. As for me, I jumped back up into my windowsill and lit up a cigarette, not wanting to miss a minute of the proceedings.

“Sara,” Lucius said, as he moved toward the señora’s head with what looked like two steel probes, “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking notes?”

“No, no, of course not,” Miss Howard answered, grabbing a pad and pencil.

“All right, then, we’ll begin with the injury to the back of the head. That occurred when you were attacked in the park,señora?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little pain revealing itself in her face. But she didn’t move.

“And that was exactly where and when?” Marcus asked, also studying the wound.

“Thursday evening. We had just left the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I often take Ana-my daughter-I often take her there. She is very fond of the sculpture hall, I don’t know just why. The figures make her so excited, full of smiles and wonder… At any rate, we usually sit afterwards by the Egyptian obelisk outside, and she sleeps. The obelisk, too, has always fascinated her, though in a different way.”

“And you were hit right there-right out in the open?”