He finally picked up the pad from the passenger seat and opened the door. Before stepping out, he took off his sunglasses. You don't ask a man if he knows his brother is dead and not have the balls to show your eyes. He put the pad in his back pocket.

There were no other cars in the drive. The carport, little more than a sheet of tin supported by poles and tacked to the roof of the trailer, was filled with a full-sized washer and dryer, rusted at their edges. A chaise lounge was missing two plastic straps. And water-stained cardboard boxes containing God knows what were stacked alongside the front of a sheet-metal utility shack. Nick kept checking the curtains, waiting for a movement that would tell him someone was inside who didn't want to talk to him.

A woman opened the door just a crack before he could step up onto the metal grated stairway. Nick lowered his eyes, just for a moment, and then looked into the light-colored eyes that peered out.

"Good morning, ma'am. I'm looking for David Ferris. Is he home, please?"

The eyes continued to look out and the crack widened, letting sunlight give blueness to their irises.

"My name is Nick Mullins, ma'am, I'm a reporter for the Daily News."

"I know who you are," the woman said. Her voice was neither accusatory nor contemptuous. Nick took it as a good sign.

"Have I met you before, ma'am?" Nick said.

"You interviewed my husband about four years ago, right here on these steps," she said, opening the door wider, her hand high on the edge of the jamb. The sun glinted off thin strands of blond hair that dangled in front of her face like a spider's web catching light. She was a small, thin woman dressed in a flower-patterned smock and loose matching pants, the kind of outfit a nurse would wear.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry," Nick said. "I, uh, I don't recall your name."

She just nodded, offering nothing.

"David isn't in, then?"