Holman parked in the lot alongside the passenger terminal, then walked over to wait at the main entrance. Pollard picked him up a few minutes later and they drove to Lincoln Heights. It was only a few minutes away.

Anton Marchenko’s mother lived in a low-income neighborhood between Main and Broadway, not far from Chinatown. The tiny houses were poorly kept because the people here had no money. The houses would be overcrowded with two or three generations and sometimes more than one family, and it took everything they had just to hang on. Holman had grown up in a similar house in another part of town and found the street depressing. Back in the day when Holman was stealing, he didn’t bother with a neighborhood like this because he knew firsthand they had nothing worth stealing.

Pollard said, “Okay, now listen-she’s going to rant about how the cops murdered her son, so we’ll just have to listen to it. Let me direct the conversation to Fowler.”

“You’re the boss.”

Pollard reached around to the backseat and brought out a folder. She put it in Holman’s lap.

“Carry this. Here we come, up here on the right. Try to act like a reporter.”

Leyla Marchenko was short and squat, with a wide Slavic face showing small eyes and thin lips. When she answered the door, she was wearing a heavy black dress and fluffy house slippers. Holman thought she seemed suspicious.

“You are the newspaper people?”

Pollard said, “Yes, that’s right. You spoke with me on the phone.”

Holman said, “We’re reporters.”

Pollard cleared her throat to shut him up, but Mrs. Marchenko pushed open the door and told them to come in.

Mrs. Marchenko’s living room was small, with spotty furnishings pieced together from lawn sales and secondhand stores. Her house wasn’t air-conditioned. Three electric table fans were set up around the room, swinging from side to side to churn the hot air. A fourth fan sat motionless in the corner, its safety cage broken and hanging on the blades. Except for the fans, it reminded Holman of his old house and he didn’t feel comfortable. The small closed space felt like a cell. He already wanted to leave.

Mrs. Marchenko dropped into a chair like a dead weight. Pollard took a seat on the couch and Holman sat beside her.

Pollard said, “All right, Mrs. Marchenko, like I told you on the phone, we’re going to do a story exploring how the police mistreated-”

Pollard didn’t have to say more than that. Mrs. Marchenko turned bright red and launched into her complaints.

“They were nasty and rude. They come in here and make such a mess, me alone, an old woman. They break a lamp in my bedroom. They break my fan-”

She waved at the motionless fan.

“They come in here stomping around the house and here I was alone, thinking I might be raped. I don’t believe any of those things they say and I still don’t. Anton did not commit all those robberies like they say, maybe that last one, but not those others. They blame him so they can say they solved all those cases. They murdered him. This man on TV, he say Anton was trying to give up when they kill him. He say, they use too much force. They tell those terrible lies to cover up themselves. I am going to sue the city. I am going to make them pay.”

The old woman’s eyes reddened along with her face, and Holman found himself staring at the broken fan. It was easier than seeing her pain.

“Max?”

“What?”

“The folder? Could I have the folder, please?”

Pollard had her hand out, waiting for the folder. Holman handed it to her. Pollard took out a sheet and passed it to Mrs. Marchenko.

“I’d like to show you some pictures. Do you recognize any of these men?”

“Who are they?”

“Police officers. Did any of these officers come to see you?”

Pollard had clipped the pictures of Richie and Fowler and the others from the newspaper and taped them to the sheet. Holman thought this was a good idea and knew he probably wouldn’t have thought of it.

Mrs. Marchenko peered at the pictures, then tapped the one of Fowler.

“Maybe him. No uniform. A suit.”

Holman glanced at Pollard, but Pollard showed no reaction. Holman knew it was a telling moment. Fowler had worn civilian clothes because he had been pretending he was a detective. He had hidden the fact that he was a uniformed officer and was pretending to be something else.

Pollard said, “How about the others? Were any of them here either with the first man or at another time?”

“No. Another man came with him, but not these.”

Now Pollard glanced over at Holman and Holman shrugged. He was wondering who in hell this fifth man was and whether or not the old woman was making a mistake.

Holman said, “You sure the other man isn’t one of the guys in the pictures? Why don’t you take another look to be sure?”

Mrs. Marchenko’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.

“I don’t need to see again. It was some other man, not one of these.”

Pollard cleared her throat and jumped in. Holman was glad.

“Do you remember his name?”

“I don’t give those bastards the time of day. I don’t know.”

“About when were they here, you think? How long ago?”

“Not long. Two weeks, I think. Why do you ask about them? They did not break my lamp. That was another one.”

Pollard put away the pictures.

“Let’s just say they might be nastier than most, but we’ll focus on everyone in the story.”

Holman was impressed with how well Pollard lied. It was a skill he had noticed before in cops. They often lied better than criminals.

Pollard said, “What did they want?”

“They wanted to know about Allie.”

“And who is Allie?”

“Anton’s lady friend.”

Holman was surprised and he could tell Pollard was surprised, too. The papers had described Marchenko and Parsons as a couple of friendless loners and had hinted at a homosexual relationship. Pollard stared down at the folder for a moment before continuing.

“Anton had a girlfriend?”

The old woman’s face grew rigid and she tipped forward.

“I am not making this up! My Anton was not a sissy boy like those horrible people said. Many young men have roommates to share in the cost. Many!”

“I’m sure of it, Mrs. Marchenko, a handsome young man like him. What did the officers want to know about her?”

“Just questions, they ask-did Anton see her a lot, where she lives, like that, but I am not going to help these people who murdered my son. I made like I don’t know her.”

“So you didn’t tell them about her?”

“I say I don’t know any girl named Allie. I am not going to help these murderers.”

“We’d like to speak with her for the article, Mrs. Marchenko. Could you give me her phone number?”

“I don’t know the number.”

“That’s okay. We can look it up. How about her last name?”

“I am not making this up. He would call her when he was here watching the television. She was so nice, a nice girl, she was laughing when he gave me the phone.”

Mrs. Marchenko had once more flushed, and Holman saw how desperately she needed them to believe her. She had been trapped in her tiny house by the death of her son, and no one was listening and no one had listened for three months and she was alone. Holman felt so bad he wanted to jump up and run, but instead he smiled and made his voice gentle.

“We believe you. We just want to talk to the girl. When was this you spoke to her?”

“Since before they murdered my Anton. It was a long time. Anton would come and we would watch the TV. Sometimes he would call her and put me on the phone, here, Mama, talk to my girl.”

Pollard pouched out her lips, thinking, then glanced at the phone at the end of Mrs. Marchenko’s couch.

“Maybe if you showed us your old phone bills we could figure out which number belongs to Allie. Then we could see if Detective Fowler treated her as badly as he treated you.”