Frank told us his plan over more Iron City and in between greeting the steady stream of “buddies” dropping by his table to toast to the Steelers. He also insisted that we join him in playing a few rounds of a game that involved trying to throw miniature basketballs into miniature rings in order to make different bells and buzzers go off. Apparently, the bells and buzzers also indicated points accumulated. I wasn’t very good at this, but Peter was a natural. Frank was enthusiastic about his new protégé, and a great deal of high-fiving, back-slapping and beer-glass-clinking ensued.

“Where are you kids staying tonight?” he asked. “Nonsense,” he said, when we told him we were going to find a motel. “You’ll stay with us. There’s one of those pullout beds in the rec room.” He checked his watch. “But we should get going. Little Frankie-that’s my daughter-she’s got her band practice on Friday nights, but I like to be there when she gets home.”

I insisted on driving. I might be a little near-sighted, but at least I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t sure I could say the same for Peter. When all was said and done, Frank had probably had two or three beers, and I was practically afloat on a sea of Diet Coke, but Peter had gone through the better part of a keg on his own. He boozily extolled Frank’s virtues from the passenger seat as I concentrated on the taillights on Frank’s battered minivan.

The Kryzluk residence was a modest ranch house on a street lined with similar houses. I parked Luisa’s car at the curb as Frank pulled the minivan into the attached garage. Peter grabbed the small athletic bag that held our limited collection of belongings, and we followed our host inside.

For dinner, Frank had promised to whip up a batch of his homemade pierogies, which, according to him, were famous. Peter volunteered to help him out while I called in a quick update to Luisa. She had little new to report, except Hilary’s frustration-apparently both Jake and the mysterious stranger had slipped her trail.

I’d finished the call and was trying to convince Peter and Frank that I could be sufficiently trusted with a knife to chop something when Frank’s daughter arrived. From the way he’d spoken of Little Frankie, I’d automatically pictured a teenage-girl version of Frank in a polyester band uniform and befeathered hat lugging a tuba and a zip drive. Little Frankie, however, defied all expectations. She may have been a band member and computer whiz, but her fashion inspiration seemed to come from Gwen Stefani rather than Bill Gates, and she had more jewelry protruding from more piercings than I’d ever seen on one person’s face.

Her behavior, however, was straight out of Emily Post. She greeted her father with affection and his guests with friendly welcome. When Frank suggested that she fetch clean linens and make up the bed in the rec room while he prepared dinner, she readily agreed. I offered to help, and she chattered on about her band and her blog as we carried sheets and blankets down into the basement.

The rec room appeared to serve many functions. A ping-pong table with a broken net was pushed up against a wet bar, and a classic Barbie town house sat on a cardboard box. “I had the same one,” I said approvingly, pausing to admire it.

“I haven’t played with it in years.”

“Me, neither. But I really loved mine.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” Frankie pulled on the string that moved the elevator up and down between the four stories. “I could probably sell it on eBay or something, but I’d rather hold on to it.”

Camera cases and video equipment filled one corner, and green metal file cabinets filled another. Framed photographs vied for space on the crowded walls. “All of the family pictures are upstairs,” explained Frankie. “These are just from my dad’s other stuff-you know, the TV show, and union things.”

I didn’t recognize any of the people in the photos of Frank interviewing guests on a makeshift set, but I assumed that they were mostly area natives. There was a picture of a slightly younger Frank being sworn in as union chapter president, with a proud, younger, and less pierced Frankie at his side. Then there was a series of group photographs featuring men, women, and children decked out in red, white, and blue outfits.

“Those are from the annual union picnics,” Frankie said, guiding me from photo to photo and narrating their progression. “This one’s from forever ago; from before my dad was even president.” A banner above the crowd indicated that the picture had been taken on the Fourth of July eight years earlier. I guessed that eight years qualified as forever when it accounted for more than half of your life. “See, there I am, and there’s my dad.”

I obediently followed her pointed finger with my eyes. Then I noticed the man next to Frank. “Who’s that?” I asked. He looked both nondescript and somehow familiar.

“Him? That’s Mr. Marcus-he was the union president before my dad-and that’s his wife, Mrs.Marcus. She passed on, though. Cancer, I think. And these are their kids, Andrew and Bobby.”

I looked at the first boy she pointed to, and then back at his father. “Andrew Marcus?”

“Yeah, that’s him and Bobby. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years, but they’re a lot older than me anyhow. They both went off to college. I forget where they went, but they didn’t move back here after. I mean, who’d want to, right? Especially after their mom died. I don’t know where they live now, but it’s got to be more interesting than Pittsburgh. Anything is.”

“Andrew Marcus,” I said again.

“Do you know him or something?” asked Frankie.

“Sort of,” I said. Because I sort of did.

Just by a different name.

I may not have been able to see too well at a distance, but I could see just fine up close.

The boy smiling out from the picture was none other than a teenaged Mark Anders.

F rank related the sad saga of the Marcus family over a hearty meal of pierogies and yet more Iron City.

Our drive-through adventure was a distant memory by the time we sat down to dinner, and my Big Mac, however big, seemed like it had been eaten in another lifetime. But I’d still been wary when Frank had first heaped my plate with the Polish dumplings. I’d gotten over my concerns quickly. In fact, I was finding them surprisingly delicious. I made a mental note to ask Frank to teach Peter how to make them. Assuming Peter ever sobered up. While the beer had no discernible impact on our host, Peter’s expression was taking on a glazed look. I had the unfortunate feeling that I was in for some world-class snoring later that night.

“Bill Marcus was a great guy,” said Frank, stabbing a pierogie with his fork. “A real salt-of-the-earth type. We used to go to the games together.” I didn’t have to ask which games; it was clear even to me that he could only be referring to football. “We’d go hunting together, too-me and him and his boys. Little Frankie here’s a vegetarian. She never wants to go hunting with her old dad, do you, cupcake?”

“I’ll go hunting with you when you go to Tai Chi with me,” she told him mildly.

“Hunting?” Something clicked. I looked up from my plate. “They hunted?”

“Sure. Bill was a great shot. The kids, too.”

“With rifles? Or with handguns?”

He snorted. “You ever try to bag a deer with a handgun? I’m talking rifles. What else would folks hunt with but a rifle or a shotgun? But if you’re asking about handguns, sure-sometimes we’d go to the practice range and play around with those. Andrew really shined at it. He had crackerjack aim-even the instructors would stand around to watch.”

“It must have been him.” I poked Peter. “I’ll bet you anything it was him.”

He gave a start. “Ouch,” he said, rubbing at his ribs.

“Mark, Andrew, whatever his name is. He must have been the other guy at the boat basin. He figured out what Jake was up to-maybe he overheard Jake on the phone with me that night, at the office-and then he followed him. And he managed to shoot the gun out of Jake’s hand, in the dark, at a distance.” I turned back to Frank. “Was Andrew Marcus that good a shot? Could he do something like that?”