Shayndie Winograd’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God- oh, no.” She reached back for an armchair, removed a toy truck, and sat down. “Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Winograd.”

“Maybe her boyfriend?”

“Who’s that?”

“Another skinny one.”

Out of Milo’s attaché came Dylan Meserve’s book shot from the hoax.

Winograd glanced at the photo. “That’s him. He was arrested? He’s a criminal?”

“He and Ms. Brand were involved in a situation. It was in the papers.”

“We don’t read the papers. What kind of situation?”

Milo gave her a summary of the phony abduction.

She said, “Why would they do such a thing?”

“It seems to have been a publicity stunt.”

Shayndie Winograd’s stare was blank.

“To help their acting careers,” said Milo.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to understand, ma’am. They thought the attention might help them get noticed in Hollywood. So why would you think Mr. Meserve would hurt Ms. Brand?”

“Sometimes they screamed at each other.”

“You heard it up here on the second floor?”

“It was loud.”

“What did they scream about?”

Shayndie Winograd shook her head. “I didn’t hear the words, just the noise.”

“Were these fights frequent?”

“Is he a bad person? Dangerous?”

“You’re not in any danger, ma’am. How often did he and Ms. Brand scream at each other?”

“I don’t know- he didn’t live here, he just came over.”

“How often?”

“Once in a while.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

She thought. “Weeks.”

“When’s the last time they had an argument?”

“Even longer…I’d say a month, maybe more?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I try not to notice things.”

“Not wanting to pry,” said Milo.

“I don’t want nahrish- foolish things in my life.”

“So Mr. Meserve hasn’t been here for a few weeks.”

“At least,” said Shayndie Winograd.

“And when did you last see Ms. Brand?”

“Her…let me think…not recently. But she used to come in late. The only time I ever noticed her was when I was out late with my husband and that’s not often.”

“The children.”

“The children get up early, everyone’s always needing something.”

“Don’t know how you do it, ma’am.”

“You concentrate on what’s important.”

Milo nodded. “So you haven’t seen Ms. Brand recently. Could you think back, maybe come up with something more specific?”

The young woman pushed back a lock of tight-sprayed, supplementary hair. “Maybe two weeks, three. I really can’t say more than that. Don’t want to give you false testimony.”

Milo suppressed a smile. The young woman shook her head. “I go out. To work. I just don’t look at things that aren’t important.”

“With six kids you have time to work?”

“At the preschool, I stay half a day. What happened to her, it’s terrible. Was it the way she lived?”

“What do you mean, ma’am?”

“I’m not insulting her, but we live one way, they live another way.”

“They?”

“The outside world.” Shayndie Winograd reddened. “I shouldn’t be talking like this. My husband says each person should pay attention to their own actions, not what other people do.”

“Your husband’s a rabbi?”

“He has smicha- he’s a rabbi but he doesn’t work as a rabbi. Half a day he does bookkeeping, the rest of the time he learns.”

“Learns what?”

Shayndie Winograd smiled again. “Torah, Judaism. He goes to a kollel- it’s like a graduate school.”

“Working on an advanced degree,” said Milo.

“He learns for the sake of learning.”

“Ah…anyway, sounds like you guys have your hands full…so, tell me about Michaela Brand’s way of life.”

“She was the normal way. What’s the American way now.”

“Meaning?”

“Tight clothes, short skirts, going out all the time.”

“Going out with who?”

“The only one I saw was the one in the picture. Sometimes she went out alone.” Shayndie Winograd blinked. “A few times we said hello. She said my children were cute. Once she offered Chaim Sholom- my six-year-old- a candy bar. I took it because I didn’t want to insult her but it wasn’t kosher so I gave it to a Mexican lady who works at the day care…she always smiled at the children. Seemed like a nice girl.” Deep sigh. “So terrible for her family.”

“She ever talk about family?”

“No, sir. We never really had a conversation, just to say hello and smile.”

Milo put his pad away. He hadn’t written anything down. “Anything else you can tell me, ma’am?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“No, that’s it,” said Shayndie Winograd. Another deep blush. “She was beautiful but I felt sorry for her. Showing a lot of…herself. But she was nice, smiled at the babies, one time I let her hold one because I was getting into the car and had lots of packages.”

“So you had no problems with her.”

“No, no, not at all. She was nice. I felt sorry for her, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Living by herself. All the going out. People think they can go out and do anything they want but the world is dangerous. This proves it, no?”

Squalls sounded from a bedroom. “Uh-oh.” We followed her into a ten-by-ten room taken up by two cribs. The occupants were a pair of infants, purple with indignation and, from the aroma, freshly soiled. Gershie Yoel bounced like a Slinky toy and tried to butt his mother as she changed diapers.

“Stop it! These men are policemen and if you don’t behave they can take you to the Beis Hasohar like Yosef Aveenu.”

The little boy growled.

“Beis Hasohar, I mean it, you good boy.” To us: “That’s jail. Yosef- Joseph, from the Bible, he ended up there, seven years until Pharaoh took him out.”

“What’d he do?” said Milo.

“Nothing,” she said. “But he was accused. By a woman.” She rolled up a filthy diaper, wiped her hands. “Bad things. Even then there were bad things.”

Milo left his card at the other apartments. When we got to the ground floor the mail carrier was distributing envelopes.

“Afternoon,” said Milo.

The postman was a gray-haired Filipino, short and slight. His U.S. Postal Service van was parked at the curb. His right hand grasped one of several keys on a chain attached to his belt as the left pressed bound stacks of mail against his torso.

“H’lo,” he said.

Milo identified himself. “What’s the situation in Box Three?”

“What do you mean?”

“When’s the last time she emptied it?”

The carrier opened Michaela’s compartment. “Looks like not for a while.” He let the keychain drop and used both hands to separate the stacks. “Two for her today. It’s not my regular route…lucky this is all she got, not much room left.”

Milo pointed to the two envelopes. “Can I take a look at those?”

The mailman said, “You know I cannot do that.”

“I don’t wanna open them,” said Milo. “She got murdered last night. I just wanna see who’s writing to her.”

“Murdered?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s not my regular route.”

“You already said that.”

The carrier hesitated, handed over the envelopes.

Bulk solicitation to apply for a low-interest home loan and a “Last Chance!” pitch to resubscribe to InStyle magazine.

Milo handed them back.

“How about the stuff inside?”

“That’s private property,” said the mailman.

“What happens when you come back in a few days and there’s no more room?”

“We leave a notice.”

“Where does the mail go?”

“Stays in the station.”

“I can get a warrant and come by and open it all up.”

“If you say.”

“I say I just wanna look at the envelopes that are in there. Seeing as the box is already open.”

“Privacy- ”

“When she got killed she lost her privacy.”