But I had to start somewhere in my search for Prewitt’s unlicensed doctor, and Lydia still lived close to the ground.

Her job made it particularly convenient for me to stop by. For obvious reasons, I didn’t identify myself as a cop when visiting informants. It was useful, for that reason, to be a female investigator visiting a women’s salon; it raised no antennae among bystanders. More good fortune: she was working in a narrow back room of shampooing stations when I arrived, with no one close enough to overhear us.

“Hey, Detective Pribek,” Lydia said. Hard plastic clattered as she rinsed a set of curlers with a jet of water from the hose, her brown hands moving in the sink.

“Sarah,” I corrected her.

“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked me.

“No, thanks,” I said. Her courtesy made me uncomfortable, because I didn’t feel I’d built any personal rapport with her; rather, I sensed she tolerated me because she’d liked Shiloh. “I’m not going to take up too much of your time,” I went on. “I just need to know if you’ve heard about something.”

When I explained my errand, something flickered in Lydia ’s eyes.

“You know who I’m talking about?” I prompted.

“Not by name,” Lydia said. “You hear him whispered about, but that’s all.”

“So what’s his story?” I asked. “Is he even a doctor, or is he an unemployed vet, or what?”

Lydia shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know any of those things.” Then she added, “I think Ghislaine knows him.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew her.”