Still standing by the window, I reached for my phone and dialed 911. Without giving my name, I reported a suspicious van parked on Mrs. Kalakos’s street. I mentioned that there had been reports of a child molester using the same type of van and I asked if the police could investigate because I was afraid to let my children go outside to play. When Mrs. Kalakos tried to say something, I just stopped her and waited by the window. I expected the van to be empty, parked there by some neighbor, nothing more than an innocent vehicle left to inspire the wild paranoia of an old, ill woman.

We waited in quiet, the two of us, accompanied by the rasp of her breath. A few minutes later, one police car pulled up behind the van and then another arrived to block the van’s escape. As the uniforms approached the car, a large man in horn-rimmed glasses, a flat-top chop, and a boxy suit came around from the other side. He showed a credential. While one cop examined it and another cop engaged him in a conversation, the man looked up at the window where I stood.

I watched all this as it played out, watched as the man in the boxy suit retreated back into his van and the two police cars pulled away. I closed the curtains and turned to the old woman, still propped up by the pillows, whose eyes, glistening with the light of the candle, were staring straight at me.

“What did your son do, Mrs. Kalakos?” I said.

“Only what I said.”

“You haven’t told me everything.”

“They are hounding him for spite.”

“Spite?”

“He was a thief, that is all.”

“The FBI doesn’t spend fifteen years searching for a common thief out of spite.”

“Will you help me, Victor? Will you help my Charlie?”

“Mrs. Kalakos, I don’t think I should get anywhere near this case. You’re not telling me everything.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Not after seeing that van.”

“You sure you not Greek?”