Closing her eyes, she says, "It was built in 1935," and she tilts her head back. "It has radiant steam heat, two point eight acres, a tile roof—"

And the tiny voice says, "Helen?"

"—a game room," she says, "a wet bar, a home gym room—"

The problem is, I don't have this much time. All I need to know, I say, is did you ever have a child?

"—a butler's pantry," she says, "a walk-in refrigerator—"

I say, did her son die of crib death about twenty years ago?

Her eyelashes blink once, twice, and she says, "Pardon me?"

I need to know if she read out loud to her son. His name was Patrick. I want to find all existing copies of a certain book.

Holding her phone between her ear and the padded shoulder of her jacket, Helen Boyle snaps open her pink and white purse and takes out a pair of white gloves. Flexing her fingers into each glove, she says, "Mona?"

I need to know if she might still have a copy of this particular book. I'm sorry, but I can't tell her why.

She says, "I'm afraid Mr. Streator will be of no use to us."

I need to know if they did an autopsy on her son.

To me, she smiles. Then she mouths the words Get out.

And I raise both my hands, spread open toward her, and start backing away.

I just need to make sure every copy of this book is destroyed.

And she says, "Mona, please call the police."

Chapter 6

In crib deaths, it's standard procedure to assure the parents that they've done nothing wrong. Babies do not smother in their blankets. In the Journal of Pediatrics, in a study published in 1945 called "Mechanical Suffocation During Infancy," researchers proved that no baby could smother in bedding. Even the smallest baby, placed facedown on a pillow or mattress, could roll enough to breathe. Even if the child had a slight cold, there's no proof that it's related to the death. There's no proof to link DPT—diphtheria, pertussis, tetanus—inoculations and sudden death. Even if the child had been to the doctor hours before, it still may die.