"One moment," the woman said, and George found himself listening to the faint music again. Not his kind. George had a quiet collection of CDs, for him alone, torchy stuff, definitely off limits to his mother, stuff to paint by, Dinah Washington, Linda Ronstadt, Liza Minnelli. Some things just don't…

"Yes," came a voice over the phone almost whispering.

"It's me," George said, his voice still disguised. "You asked me to call you at ten. I'm calling you."

"Who is this?"

"Burt Chambers from the Tool and Die," said George.

"I don't know what the hell…"

"Look, Mr. Dozier, I'm just doing what-"

"Dozier?"

"Are you Carl Dozier?" asked George.

"Harvey Rozier," the man said with exasperation that George thought was fully justified.

"Look," said George. "Is this or isn't this three-one-two-one-one-one-one?"

"No," said Rozier, looking at the number on the phone. "It is not."

"I'm sorry," George said with a sigh. "I'm having a bad day."

Rozier hung up. So did George.

He had watched the Rozier house for three weeks. Every night Looking for a house in Saginaw Park with signs of money, a wall or tall trees, and no dogs. The Rozier house, a red brick that looked a little like a castle, stood at the end of a cul-de-sac and down a drive. George had had his handyman card ready when he approached the house the first time, right after the mailman left. George had been ready to whip the card out in case he had overlooked a maid, a pool man, a relative. He'd driven right to the front door and rung the bell. No answer, but George was just setting up, taking no chances. Nice place. Big. He went for the mail, found out he was at the home of Harvey and Dana Rozier.

George returned to the street every few days and nights but never to the cul-de-sac. It wasn't the only house he checked out. He had six others on the line in suburbs as far north as Highland Park and as far south as Morgan Park.