I nodded to him, he returned the silent greeting, and I read aloud from the dead man’s driver’s license. “James Phillips-Orchard Heights. Ring any bells with anybody?”

“From the address, I’d say we didn’t travel in the same circles,” George answered from the steps.

Another pocket yielded a long, thin metal chain. “Interesting tool for a break-in.”

George’s curiosity wore him down. He walked over and crouched next to me. “What is it?”

“A dog leash. Here’s something else.” It was a miniature leather photo album, about the size of a checkbook. Inside were ten pictures-seven of a prissy toy poodle standing alone; two of the poodle and a smiling man, who was on all fours next to the dog; and one of the man, the poodle, and a woman standing in front of a house. In the last shot, the woman was holding the dog. She looked like she’d rather have been elsewhere.

George tilted his hat back on his head. “Weird. You ever have a picture book of your pet?”

I pushed myself up off my knees and grunted to a standing position. Dunn was still standing there, silently watching. I continued to ignore him, as he once had asked me to. “I wonder what our Mr. Phillips was up to? What’s the old lady’s name?”

“Thelma Reitz.”

She was sitting in the kitchen, thin, frail, and beaten, her white head bowed and shimmering under the harsh fluorescent glare. The attendant from Rescue, Inc. was making notes at the table. I took a chair like the one lying in the hallway and sat facing her, elbows on knees, my legs slightly apart to allow for my gut. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dunn enter the room and lean against the wall.