The difference, this timewas a license number for the maroon coupe; I’d seen it: 519-836. In a diner I made a call to Lou Sapperstein, who made a call to the motor vehicle bureau, and phoned back with the scoop: the Plymouth was licensed to Rosalie Rizzo, but the address was different-2848 South Cuyler Avenue, in Berwyn.

The bungalow was typical for Berwyn-a tidy little frame house on a small perfect lawn. My guess was this was her folks’ place. In back was a small matching, but unattached garage, on the alley. Peeking in the garage windows, I saw the maroon coupe and smiled.

“Is Rosalie in trouble again?”

The voice was female, sweet, young.

I turned and saw a slender, almost beautiful teenage girl with dark eyes and bouncy, dark shoulder-length hair. She wore a navy-blue sailor-ish playsuit. Her pretty white legs were bare.

“Are you Rosalie’s sister?”

“Yes. Is she in trouble?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I just know Rosalie, that’s all. That man isn’t really her husband, is he? That Mr. Riggs.”

“No.”

“Are you here about her accident?”

“No. Where is she?”

“Are you a police officer?”

“I’m a detective. Where did she go?”

“Papa’s inside. He’s afraid he’s going to be in trouble.”

“Why’s that?”

“Rosalie put her car in our garage yesterday. She said she was in an accident and it was damaged and not to use it. She’s going to have it repaired when she gets back from vacation.”

“What does that have to do with your papa being scared?”

“Rosalie’s going to be mad as H at him, that he used her car.” She shrugged. “He said he looked at it and it didn’t look damaged to him, and if mama was going to have to look after Rosalie’s g.d. canary, well he’d sure as H use her gas not his.”