Neither of us spoke again. Conrad turned his police-issue Buick into Jackson Park. We joined a heavy stream of cars, the tag end of the morning rush, filing through the Jackson Park construction zone onto Lake Shore Drive. A feeble autumn sun was trying to break through the cloud cover, and the air had a sickly light that hurt my eyes.

“You called it a crime scene,” I finally said, just to break the silence. “Was it arson? Was that Frank Zamar the firemen carried out?”

He grunted again. “No way of knowing till we hear from the medical examiner, but we’re assuming it was-talked to the foreman, who said Zamar was the only person left in the building when the shift ended. As far as arson goes-can’t tell that, either, not until the arson squad goes through there, but I don’t think the guy died from neglect.”

Conrad switched the conversation, asking me about my old friend Lotty Herschel-he’d been surprised not to see her down at the hospital with me, her being a doctor and my big protector and all.

I explained I hadn’t had time to make any calls. I kept wondering about Morrell, but I wasn’t going to share that with Conrad. Probably the hospital hadn’t bothered to call him-otherwise, surely, he would’ve phoned me, even if he couldn’t make the drive. I tried not to think of Marcena Love, sleeping in Morrell’s guest room. Anyway, she was frying other fish these days. These nights. I abruptly asked Conrad how he liked being so far from the center of action.

“ South Chicago is the center of action, if you’re a cop,” he said. “Homicide, gangs, drugs-we got it all. And arson, plenty of that, lots of old factories and what-do being sold to the insurance companies.”

He pulled up in front of my building. “The old guy, Contreras, he still living on the ground floor? We going to have to spend an hour with him before we go upstairs?”

“Probably. And there’s no ‘we’ about it, Conrad: I can manage the stairs on my own.”