The technician was finished now, and Manny walked up behind Fred and whispered that he should remember to stick to the questions asked and above all to try to keep calm. Then he left the room.

“You can sit back if you’d like,” Drysdale said. He himself pulled up an old office chair covered with yellow leather and crossed one leg over the other. “As you know, we ask only yes and no questions, so we’ll start with the easy stuff to calibrate this thing. Your name is Fred Treadwell?”

Fred nodded.

“Please say yes or no.”

“I’m sorry. Yes.”

“Your name is Fred Treadwell?”

“Yes.”

They ran through the usual opening questions-name, address, day of the week-getting used to the slight scratch of the pencil on the lined paper, the hum of the machine.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Drysdale said.

“No,” Fred said, and Drysdale noted the skip in the pencil. So it was getting to him. Actually, the subject didn’t have to say anything to get a reading. The body reacted even when the words weren’t said. Drysdale knew this, was counting on it, and on Treadwell not understanding it.

“Okay, let’s tell a couple of lies.”

“But if I know I’m not trying to deceive by giving a false answer, the machine will register true, won’t it?”

Drysdale gave him a broad grin. “You get this stuff, don’t you? You’re right. So try and deceive me a little on this next set, okay.” He leaned forward in his chair. “We’re still in the test phase here, all right?”

Fred nodded, licking his lips. He looked to the door behind Drysdale, as though seeking assurance that Manny was out there to help him if he needed it.

“You have worked at your current job eight years, is that correct?”

“Yes.” True.

“And you’ve lived two years in your apartment?”

“Yes.” False.

“Two years?” Build on the falsehood and see what he does. “And you have painted it during that time?”

“The time I lived there or the last two years?”

Very good, Fred, Drysdale thought. He said, “I’m sorry, have you painted the apartment in the past two years?”

“No.” True.

“And your apartment is on the second floor?”

“No.” False.

“So it’s on the third floor?”

Pause. “Yes.” False.

“But if you fell from the third story, wouldn’t you do more than sprain your ankle?”

“That wasn’t one of the questions.” A light sweat had broken on Fred’s forehead.

All innocence, Drysdale held up his hands. “It seemed to spring naturally from the previous answers.” Not pushing it, he looked over at the polygraph. “Look, in any event, the machine seems to be working properly.” He came back to Fred. “You’ve not lived in your apartment two years and the apartment is not on the third floor. Are both of these statements correct?”

“Yes.”

Drysdale glanced at the machine again, took in a breath and held it a minute. Letting it out in a rush, he said, “All right, the test is over. Let’s begin.”

Drysdale had the typed questions in front of him. He also had Fred’s Statement of Facts on Medina’s attack, which he’d used to draw up the questions. He started at the beginning and asked the questions in order, lulling Fred into a space where his confidence was growing with the polygraph’s support to the point that he seemed almost unaware that he was wired. It was just a conversation between Drysdale and himself, even if one side of it was only yes and no.

Drysdale paused in the questioning. “All right,” he said, “now we’re where the talk with Mr Medina has turned to the alleged Valenti/Raines assault on you. Is that correct?”

It wasn’t a question on the typed list, but it was so natural that Fred didn’t seem to notice.

“Yes.” True.

“And Mr Medina said he represented Mr Raines?”

Fred didn’t answer.

“Mr Treadwell?”

“That’s not one of the questions.”

Drysdale settled back in his seat, not pushing it yet. “Fred, we’re corroborating the events of last Friday night, right? You want to look at your own Statement of Facts? You mention Valenti and Raines.” He was all reason. “I’m not getting back to that case-I’m verifying the facts in this statement.”

“But it wasn’t one of the questions.”

Drysdale smiled. “Come on, Fred. So I missed one. I made a mistake, but if you want, we can stop now. If you don’t answer this question I don’t see where we can go from here.”

The sweat had come back to Treadwell’s forehead. “All right,” he said finally. “What was the question again?”

“Medina said he represented Raines, yes or no?”

“Yes.” True.

“But he told you he had no formal connection to that case.” Drysdale went from the questions to the Statement of Facts. “He said he wanted you to know about the damage that just accusing somebody can do to their life?”

“Yes.” True.

“And he wanted you to know that because he thought you were falsely accusing Valenti and Raines of beating you up?” Good, they were way off the question list now.

“Yes.”

“And then he grabbed your dog, Poppy, was it?”

Treadwell swallowed, off the list himself now, remembering. “Yes. He was just petting it…”

“And he broke its neck?”

“Yes. Yes. He just…” He hung his head, suffering through it again.

“He broke your dog’s neck because he thought you were falsely accusing Valenti and Raines?”

“No! I mean, yes!”

“Yes, he thought it, or yes, you had falsely accused them?”

Treadwell was looking around, panic setting in. “He did it to threaten me,” he said, “to threaten my life.”

“If you didn’t retract your story?”

“Yes.” True.

“Your story? Your true story about Valenti and Raines?”

“Yes, he just-”

“Your story about Valenti and Raines is true, then, is that correct?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s true. That part is true.”

False. False. False.

“They did beat you?”

“Yes.” False. “He killed Poppy, and they beat me.” False. “Why don’t you believe me? He killed my Poppy.” Fred was slumped on his arms over the table. He raised his head. “He killed my Poppy.”

Drysdale reached over and patted his hand. “I believe you, Fred. He killed your Poppy.”

Fred put his head back down on the table. Drysdale kept patting his hand, feeling dirty and sad. “I think we’re done here,” he said to the technician. “You can unhook him.”

A rust sky presaged an uneasy dusk.

Lace was wearing an army-surplus all-weather jacket and, collar up against the cold, walked the periphery of Holly Park alone. From time to time he’d nod at one or another of the small groups of younger men hanging on stoops or by their wheels, but no one asked him to join them, or offered much more than a cock of the head. Jumpup was over to Lorethra’s house, inside, with her and her mama and the little ones. Lace, he’d looked in at Baker’s Mama, but she had come back from the hospital with a bottle and it was way down already.

He passed Dido’s old cut-his old cut-crossing the street away from it, making clear he understood the new territory. He stopped, hands in his pockets, and was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around.

“Easy, my man.”

Samson had backed three steps away. His dreadlocks hung like thick cobwebs around the obsidian, small-eyed, expressionless face. Lace’s heart was pumping pretty good.

As though they’d been having a conversation all this time, Samson said, “Three ways it can go.”

Lace shook his shoulders loose, the casual attitude. He knew how Samson was. Like an animal, you show any fear around him and he attacks. “What is?” Lace said.

“The Man be lookin’, askin’ around maybe, sometimes the wrong stories get out.”

“I got no stories.”

“No. See? That’s one way it can go. You got no story, maybe you hang in the cut, run with me.” Samson’s teeth showed yellow. “Same ol’. Back to it, right?”

He stepped closer. There was a brightness in the tiny eyes as though he’d been using his product. Dido didn’t go in for that when he was working. Well, Samson wasn’t Dido, and Lace had better get used to that.