“Donato?” Frank called, hoping for some direction to the proper flat.

She looked up in surprise.

“Do you know where the Donatos live?” he asked, hoping she spoke some English.

“What you want?” she asked suspiciously.

“I want to see them. Which flat is theirs?”

“We no do nothing wrong,” the woman said, the fear thick in her voice.

“Are you Mrs. Donato?” he asked, coming closer.

She cringed away. “We no do nothing wrong,” she insisted.

“I need to talk to you, about your daughter Emilia.”

“Emilia!” she echoed scornfully. “I have no daughter. Go away.”

She certainly didn’t have a daughter any longer, but Frank didn’t want to break the news to her in the hallway, no matter how angry she might be with the girl.

“Is your husband at home?” Frank asked.

Now that his eyes were used to the darkness, he could make out her features more clearly. She wasn’t as old as her plodding gait had suggested, but the years hadn’t been kind to her. “He no here,” she claimed almost desperately. “Come back later.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait here for him,” Frank suggested. “Or go get the landlord to help me find him.”

This put the fear of God into her. Landlords didn’t like tenants who brought the police snooping around. “What you want?”

“I told you, I want to talk to you about your daughter Emilia,” he said patiently. His experience had been that most of the Italians avoided trouble whenever possible and were terrified of dealing with the police. Apparently, law enforcement in their native country was even more corrupt than it was in New York City. “I won’t keep you very long, but it’s not something I want to talk about here,” he added meaningfully.

She hated him. He could see it in her eyes, along with the fear. But she said, “Come,” and started up the stairs again. She was a short woman, but not small. Her breasts and hips were full and round. They were sagging now, but she’d probably had an appealing figure as a young girl, before the years and childbirth had taken their toll.