I had expected some underling. With a pang of dismay, I recognized the chief of police, the man I’d called in the middle of the night, Claude Friedrich.

I stood aside and waved him in, cursing my conscience-stricken call, afraid anything I said would cause him to recognize my voice.

It was the first time I’d seen Claude Friedrich close up, though of course I had glimpsed him driving in and out of the apartment house driveway, and occasionally passed him in the hall when I was in the building on a cleaning job.

Claude Friedrich was in his late forties, a very tall man with a deep tan, light brown hair and mustache streaked with gray, and light gray eyes that shone in the weathered face. He had few wrinkles, but the ones he had were so deep, they might have been put in with a chisel. He had a broad face and a square jaw, broad shoulders and hands, a flat stomach. His gun looked very natural on his hip. The dark blue uniform made my mouth feel dry, made something inside me twitch with anxiety, and I reacted with anger.

Macho man, I thought. As if he could hear me, Friedrich suddenly turned to catch me with my brows raised, one side of my mouth pulled up sardonically. We locked stares for a tense moment.

“Mrs. Hofstettler,” he said politely, transferring his gaze to my employer, who was twisting a handkerchief in her hands.

“Thank you for coming-maybe you didn’t even need to,” Mrs. Hofstettler said in one breath. “I would hate to bother you. Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the flowered sofa at right angles to the television and to her own favorite recliner.

“Thank you, ma’am, and coming here is no trouble at all,” Friedrich said comfortingly. He knew how to be soothing, no doubt about it. He sat down gratefully, as if he’d been standing for a long time. I moved into the kitchen, which has a hatch cut in the wall behind the counter, and opened it to stick out the coffeepot behind our guest’s back. Mrs. Hofstettler, thus reminded, went into her hostess mode, helping her regain her calm.