'Well,that answers one of my questions,' she said.

    'Maywe come in?' Byrne asked.

    Thewoman blinked a few times, as if Byrne was speaking another language. 'Can youhear me?' she asked.

    'Ma'am?'

    'Canyou hear my voice?'

    'Yes,'Byrne said. 'I can hear your voice.'

    'Good.I hear you too. We can talk right here.'

    Jessicasensed Byrne's gloves coming off. He pulled out his notebook, flipped a fewpages. 'What's your first name, ma'am?'

    Pause.'Sharon.'

    'Isyour husband Kenneth Arnold Beckman?'

    Thewoman snorted. 'Husband? That's one way of putting it.'

    'Areyou married to him, ma'am?'

    Thewoman took a long drag on her cigarette. Jessica noted that the nicotine stainson her fingers reached down to her knuckles. She blew out the smoke, and withit her answer. 'Barely.'

    'Whenwas the last time you saw him?'

    'Why?'

    'Rightnow I just need you to answer the question, ma'am. I'll explain why in amoment.'

    Anotherdrag. Jessica estimated that, if they were going to get through the basicquestions at this pace, Sharon Beckman would go through a pack and a half.'Yesterday afternoon.'

    'Aboutwhat time?'

    Anothersigh. 'About three o'clock.'

    'Andwhere was this?'

    'Itwas at the MGM Grand in Vegas. I'm a dancer there.'

    Byrnestared, the woman stared. She rolled her eyes.

    'Itwas right about where you're standing,' she said. 'I think he said somethinglike "Clean the kitchen, you lazy fucking bitch." Real Hallmarkmoment.'

    Thewind picked up again, blowing a thin cold rain across the porch. Byrne moved afew feet to his right, making sure that Sharon Beckman caught the rain directlyin her face.

    'Washe alone at the time?'

    'Yeah,'Sharon Beckman said, stepping back a foot. 'For once.'

    'Andhe did not come home last night?'

    Thewoman snorted. 'Why break with tradition?'

    Byrnepressed on. 'Does anyone else live here?'

    'Justmy son.'

    Myson, Jessica thought. Not our son.

    'Howold is he?'

    Thewoman smiled. Her teeth were the same color as her tobacco- stained knuckles.'Why, officer. That would be giving away my age.' When Byrne didn't respond,didn't budge, didn't seem to be weak- kneed by the woman's coquettish charms,she repositioned her scowl, hit her cigarette again, and said, 'He's nineteen.I had him when I was six.'

    Byrnemade the note. He then asked her what the kid's name was. She told him. JasonCrandall.

    'Wheredoes your husband work?'

    'Hey.You writing a fucking book here? My autobiography, maybe?'

    'Ma'am,we're just trying to—'

    'No. Whatyou need to do is tell me what this is about or we're done here. I know myrights.'

    Jessicaknew the notification was coming, so she watched the woman's face as she tookin the news. You could tell a lot from the initial reaction to the news that aloved one has been killed. Or even one not so loved.

    'Mrs.Beckman, your husband was murdered yesterday.'

    Thewoman drew a sharp intake of breath, but other than that betrayed nothing.Except, perhaps, for a slight shake in her hands, which deposited a longcigarette ash on the floor. She stared out at the street for a moment, turnedback. 'How did he get it?'

    Getit, Jessica thought. Most people said 'What?' or 'Oh my God' or 'No!' orsomething like that. How did he get it? No, not too many people ask howthe deceased became deceased. That usually came a bit later in theconversation.

    'Maywe come in, ma'am?' Byrne said. 'It's getting a little nasty out here.'

    Thenews had undone the woman's resolve, as well as her animosity. Without saying aword, she opened the door and stepped to the side.

    Theyentered the house, a standard porchfront-style row house, large by Phillystandards, probably measuring around 1500 square feet on three floors. It wasquickly degenerating, already long past its sell- by date.

    Theliving room was directly to the left, with a hallway leading to a kitchen and astairway at the back of the house. The walls were painted a cheerless, fadedbaby blue. The furniture was worn, mismatched, spring-shocked. A half-eatenWeight Watchers dinner sat on a coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray.Cat hair covered nearly every surface. The place smelled like microwavepopcorn.

    SharonBeckman did not offer them a seat. Jessica would have passed on that offeranyway.

    'Ma'am,'Byrne said. 'We're here because your husband was a victim of homicide. We'retrying to find out who did this, and bring that person to justice.'

    'Yeah?Well, look in the fucking mirror,' the woman spat.

    'Iunderstand your anger,' Byrne continued. 'But if there's anything you can thinkof that might help us, we would really appreciate it.'

    Thewoman lit another Salem off the first cigarette, held them both for a fewmoments, one in each hand.

    'Canyou think of anyone who might have had a problem with your husband?' Byrneasked. 'Someone he owed money to? Someone with whom he had a business problem?'

    Thewoman took a full five seconds to answer. Maybe she did have something to hide.

    'Do Ineed a lawyer?' Sharon Beckman asked. She butted out the short cigarette.

    'Haveyou done anything wrong, Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked. It was Cop Speak 101.Standard across the world when police arrive at the lawyer moment.

    'Plenty,'she said.

    Wronganswer, Jessica thought. The woman was trying to be cute, but she didn'trealize that a picture was being painted, and every stroke mattered.

    'Well,then, I can't answer your question,' Byrne said. 'If you feel the need forcounsel at this time, by all means call your attorney. I can tell youthat you are not suspected of anything. You are a witness, and a very importantwitness. All we need to do is ask you a few questions. The more you tell us,the likelier it will be that we can find the person who did this to yourhusband.'

    Jessicamade another quick perusal of the room. There were no photographs of theBeckmans on the mantel over the bricked-in fireplace, no soft-focus wedding dayportraits in tacky gold-painted frames.

    'Ifyou'll just bear with us a little longer,' Byrne continued, 'we'll get theinformation we need, and we'll leave you to your thoughts and yourarrangements.'

    SharonBeckman just stared. Byrne led her through the rest of the standard questions,giving her the standard assurances. He concluded by asking her if she had aphotograph of her husband.

    WhileSharon Beckman was in the hallway, going through a legal- sized cardboard box,looking for the photograph, the front door opened.

    Thekid who entered looked younger than nineteen. Stringy blond hair, surfer cool,hooded, stoned eyes. When he saw Byrne he must have figured him for a cop, andhe shoved his right hand deep into his baggy shorts. Dope pocket.

    'Howya doin?' the kid mumbled.

    'Good,thanks,' Byrne said. 'Are you Jason?'

    Thekid looked up, shocked, like there was no way that Byrne could have possiblygotten this information. 'Yeah.' Barely audible. The kid leaned back on hisheels, as if that might increase the distance between them. Jessica could smellthe marijuana on his clothes from ten feet away.

    'Kenny'sdead,' Sharon Beckman said, walking back into the room, a pair of old snapshotsin her hand. She handed them to Jessica.

    Jasonstared at his mother, blinking. It was as if the words hadn't yet reached hisbrain. 'Dead?'

    'Yeah.Like in not alive anymore?'

    Jessicalooked at the kid. No reaction.

    Overthe next few minutes Byrne asked Jason the basic questions, got the expected answers.Jason said he had not seen his stepfather in more than three days.