A cop who was your sister was a different item, and when Patty Dolan came by forty minutes later, Crosetti was perfectly willing to get into her face. After having established that he was but a minor figure in the life of the victim, he asked, “So what do you guys think?” Meaning her fellow cops; as he said this, he glanced at his mother as well.

“Well, the guy was a Brit and gay,” said Patty. “They’re figuring it for a sex thing that went sour.”

“I doubt that,” said Crosetti.

“Why, did you have sex with him?” asked the big sister. “You explored all his little twists?”

“No, did you? The first time I saw him I thought, Gee, Patty would really go for this guy. He’s fat and sweaty and bald…”

This was a reference to Jerry Dolan, her husband. The Crosettis were the kind of family where physical imperfections were fair game among the sibs. Patty Dolan herself had come in for enough of it herself growing up. She was a blocky woman with a strong-featured face not unlike the one her dad wore in the oil painting. She had his black hair too, but with the mom’s blue eyes.

“Look who’s talking,” said the detective, and her hand darted out in a practiced move to wring the loose flab above Crosetti’s belt. He batted the hand away and said, “No, seriously. I assume you know the guy was involved in a big-money con a few years back. And he ripped me off on a valuable manuscript. That speaks to bad character.”

“Which could’ve extended into his sex life. What’s your point?”

“I don’t know if I have one,” said Crosetti. “But look at the pattern. He cheats me and disappears to England. Carolyn Rolly ditches her whole life and disappears to England too, or so she says, in a letter that I know for a fact contains nine-tenths bullshit. Then Bulstrode comes back here and gets tortured to death. Did you find that manuscript on him?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my case.”

“Well, if it’s missing, there’s your motive.”

“What was it worth?”

“Hard to say. Fanny says maybe fifty grand at auction.”

At this, Detective Dolan raised an eyebrow, protruded her lower lip. “That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s chump change compared to its real value.”

“What do you mean?”

Crosetti looked at his mother. “Should we tell her?”

“Unless you want her to beat it out of you,” said Mary Peg.

Crosetti told her what they knew and what the Bracegirdle letter suggested, after which Patty turned to her mother. “You believe all this?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Peg. “Fanny tells us that the original sheets we have here are genuine seventeenth century, so maybe the Bracegirdle letter is legit too. There really might be an unknown manuscript play by William Shakespeare buried someplace. Maybe Bulstrode got a line on it, and maybe not. Maybe he told someone about it while he was over in England looking and maybe the word got out to the kind of people who kill people for money.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, Ma. What I don’t like is that Allie is mixed up in a chain of events that lead to a really nasty killing. And that he was involved with this woman who disappeared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Crosetti.

“Just that looking at it from the cop point of view, if we assume for a minute that this murder isn’t just a sex thing like the guys on the case think, it’s much more likely that it was a scam, just like the one that got Bulstrode into trouble in the first place. Someone slips a phony clue into an old book so that it gets discovered by someone-this Rolly woman-who’s bound to send it to Bulstrode…you’re shaking your head.”

Crosetti had been, and now he said, with some ascerbity, “No, the find was genuine. I was there, Patty. It was pure accident that those volumes were burned and sent to be broken up.”

“True, but she could’ve had those sheets prepared and just pretended to find them in those books.”

“And somehow slipped them into all the volumes hoping for a fire? That’s nuts. I saw them come out of those covers with my own eyes.”

“Oh, there’s good evidence! Any con man can do that kind of switch. I’m sorry, but when I hear about the secret treasure and the mysterious manuscript, I grab hold of my wallet.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Crosetti, his voice rising. “This is a real manuscript, by a real guy, and the cipher is a real cipher. Ask Fanny if you don’t believe me. Or Klim.”

“Klim?”

“Yeah, our new houseguest. He’s in your old room.”

Patty gave her mother a look. Who said, “Don’t give me that cop stare, Patricia. He’s a perfectly respectable Polish gentleman who’s helping us with deciphering these letters. And I have to say that you’re being unduly suspicious and even unfair to your brother.”

“Fine,” said Dolan, suppressing a sigh. Getting between Mary Peg and her baby was ever a losing proposition. “But if a smooth-talking character shows up with a package he says is the Shakespeare manuscript and wants ten grand good faith money…”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” said mother and son almost simultaneously, which was funny enough to discharge the tensions. The family detective said she’d keep track of the Bulstrode case to the extent her duties and department protocol allowed and keep them abreast of any relevant findings.

As soon as she left, Mary Peg said, “I’m going to see if Radi wants any coffee. I think he’s been up all night.”

“Radi?”

“Oh, mind your own business!” said Mary Peg and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Crosetti to ponder the hitherto unrelated categories of Mom and Romance. He went to work, where he had to dissemble about his special knowledge of Bulstrode and his recent doings while Sidney Glaser went on about how shocking it was when someone one knew was actually murdered, and how this was yet another indication of the collapse of the city and of Western civ. On his return home that evening he entered a house full of the rich smell of cooking stew. He found his mother and Radeslaw Klim in the kitchen, drinking sherry and laughing. She was not sitting on his lap, but Crosetti would not have been surprised to see it, given the atmosphere in the room: not all the steam was coming from the pot on the stove.

“Hello, darling,” said Mary Peg gaily, “have some sherry.” Crosetti had not before this been so greeted upon entering his home. He looked at his mother and observed that she seemed ten years younger. Two bright bars of pink stood on her cheeks, but there was a touch of nervousness in her eyes, as if she were a girl again, entertaining a boy on a porch swing with her dad nosing around. Klim stood and extended his hand, and they shook formally. Crosetti felt that he was in a movie, not one he ever would have directed or even wanted to see, one of those family farces where the single mom falls for the unsuitable man and the kids conspire to break it up, only to find…

But before he could organize his discomfort into an attitude, Mary Peg said, in her hostess voice, an uncharacteristic chirp, “I was just telling Radi about your interest in Polish movies. He knows a lot about them.”

“Really,” said Crosetti politely. He went to the jug of red wine that stood (as one like it had always stood) in a corner of the kitchen counter and poured a juice glass full.

“Not at all,” said Klim. “I am a fan only. Of course I do not need the little words under the screen to enjoy.”

“Uh-huh. What Polish films in particular?”

“Oh, recently I have liked ´Zycie jako ´smiertelna choroba of Zanussi. Very beautiful, although the Catholic…what do you say? Preaching?”

“Proselytizing.”

“Yes, just so. This is too crude, too-what you say-obvious, to me. Of course, Kiéslowski did the same more subtler. He often would say, we don’t hit on the head with the church, is as bad as hitting on the head with the communism. It is enough we have a moral cinema without seeming to. As for example in Trois couleurs and of course in Dekalog.”