“There’s no reason to think that- ”

“That’s a lawyer answer. What if he’s one of those ticking time bombs you hear about on the news, real quiet until he explodes? Some of the Mexicans have kids. What if he’s one of those perverts and you didn’t tell me?”

“Why would you think that, ma’am?”

“He is?” said Stadlbraun. “A pervert? That’s what this is about?”

“No, ma’am, and it would be a real bad idea- ”

“It’s in the news every day, all these perverts. It wasn’t like that in my day. Where did they all come from?”

Milo didn’t answer.

Ertha Stadlbraun shook her head. “He gives me the willies. And now you’re telling me he’s an ex-con child molester.”

Milo leaned in closer. “I am definitely not telling you that, ma’am. It would be a terrible idea to spread those kinds of rumors.”

“You’re saying he could sue me?”

“I’m saying that Mr. Peaty is not suspected of anything. He may be a material witness and we’re not even sure of that. This is what we call a background check. We do it all the time to be thorough. Mostly it ends up going nowhere.”

Ertha Stadlbraun considered that. “Some job you’ve got.”

Milo suppressed a smile. “If you were in danger, I’d tell you. I promise, ma’am.”

Another hair pat. “Well, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Wouldn’t want to be careless and spread rumors.”

She stood.

Milo said, “May I ask a few more questions?”

“Such as?”

“When he comes home from work, does he ever leave again?”

Her chest heaved. “He’s an innocent lamb but you want to know about his schedule…oh, never mind, you’re clearly not going to tell me the truth.”

She turned her back on us.

“Does he ever leave once he’s home?” said Milo.

“Not that I’ve seen but I don’t keep tabs.”

“What about last night?”

She faced us again, shot a disgusted look. “Last night I was busy cooking. Three whole chickens, green beans with onions, yams, coleslaw with bacon shreds, four pies. I freeze early in the week so I can relax on Sunday when the kids come to visit. That way I can defrost Sunday morning before church, get back and heat up and we have a real dinner, not that greasy fast food.”

“So you didn’t notice what time Mr. Peaty came in.”

“I never notice,” she said.

“Never?”

“I might see him come in occasionally.”

“What time does he usually get here from work?”

“Six, seven.”

“And weekends?”

“Far as I can tell, weekends he stays inside all day. But I’m not going to promise you he never leaves. It’s not like he’d stop by to say hello, him with those eyes aiming down like he’s counting ants on a hill. I certainly can’t tell you about last night. While I cooked, I had music on, then I watched the news, then I watched the Essence Awards, then I did a crossword and went to sleep. So if you’re looking for me to alibi that nut, forget it.”

Much has been made of geographical profiling- criminals remaining within a comfort zone. Like any theory, sometimes it pans out, sometimes it doesn’t and you get killers prowling the interstate or venturing far from home so they can establish a comfort zone far from prying eyes.

With any alleged rules about human behavior, you’re lucky if you do better than chance. But the four-minute drive from Peaty’s apartment to Michaela Brand’s place on Holt was hard to ignore.

Her building was a mint-green fifties dingbat. The front was an open carport set behind oil-specked concrete. Six parking slots, unoccupied but for a dusty brown Dodge minivan. The facade was spanned by two olive-green diamonds. Speckles in the stucco caught afternoon light. Way too giddy.

A bank of key-lock mailboxes set into the wall just south of the parking area bore no names, only unit numbers. No manager designation. Michaela’s compartment was shut tight. Milo squinted through the slot. “Lots of stuff inside.”

Her apartment was at the back. Louvre windows as old as the building were a burglar’s dream. The glass slats were folded shut but green curtains had been left slightly parted. Dark inside, but the outlines of furniture were clear.

Milo began knocking on doors.

The only tenant at home was a woman in her twenties wearing a stiff, brandy-colored wig and a calf-length denim jumper over a white, long-sleeved sweater. The wig made me wonder about chemotherapy, but she was buxom and her gray eyes were clear. The same kind of lightly freckled complexion Michaela Brand had been blessed with. Open face tightened by surprise.

I saw the side curls and yarmulke on the squirming blond boy she was holding and got it: Some Orthodox Jewish women covered their natural hair out of modesty.

The badge made her press her son to her chest. “Yes?”

The boy’s arms and feet shot out simultaneously and she nearly lost her grip. He looked to be three or so. Stocky and sturdy, twisting and turning, emitting little growly noises.

“Calm down, Gershie Yoel!”

The boy waved a fist. “Hero hero Yehudah! Fall the elephant!”

He squirmed some more and she gave up and set him down. He rocked on his feet and growled some more. Eyed us and said, “Fall!”

“Gershie Yoel, go in the kitchen and take a cookie- but only one. And don’t wake up the babies!”

“Hero-hero! Yehudah HaMakawbee gonna spear you bad Greek!”

“Go now, good boy, or no cookie!”

“Grr!” Gershie Yoel ran off, past walls covered with bookshelves. Books on every table and the couch. Any remaining space was filled with playpens and toys and packages of disposable diapers.

The boy’s shouts diminished.

“He’s still celebrating the holidays,” said the young woman.

“Hanukkah?” said Milo.

She smiled. “Yes. He thinks he’s Yehudah- Judah Maccabee. That’s a big hero in the Hannukah story. The elephant is from a story about one of his brothers- ” She stopped, blushed. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re here about one of your neighbors, Mrs…”

“Winograd. Shayndie Winograd.”

Milo had her spell it and wrote it down.

She said, “You need my name?”

“Just for the record, ma’am.”

“Which neighbors, the punk rockers?”

“Which punk rockers are those?”

She pointed to an upstairs unit two doors down. “Over there, Unit Four. Three of them, they think they’re musicians. My husband tells me they’re punk rockers, I don’t know from such things.” She held her ears.

“Noise problem?” said Milo.

“There was before,” said Shayndie Winograd. “Everyone complained to the owner and it’s been okay…excuse me a second, I need to check on the babies, please come in.”

We cleared books from a brown corduroy couch. Leatherette-bound volumes gold-embossed with Hebrew titles.

Shayndie Winograd returned. “Still sleeping, boruch- thank God.”

“How many babies?” said Milo.

“Twins,” she said. “Seven months ago.”

“Mazel tov,” said Milo. “Three’s a lot to handle.”

Shayndie Winograd smiled. “Three would be easy. I’ve got six, five are school-age. Gershie Yoel should be in school but he was coughing this morning and I thought maybe he had a cold. Then, wouldn’t you know, he got miraculously better.”

Milo said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Her smile widened. “Maybe I should have you talk to him about honesty…so is the problem the punk rockers?”

“This is about Ms. Brand, the tenant in Unit Three.”

“The model?” said Shayndie Winograd.

“She modeled?”

“I call her that because she looks like a model. Pretty, very skinny? What’s the problem?”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, she was murdered last night.”