Ryan was in a phone booth in the lobby of the Detroit City-County Building. He called his friend Dick Speed and arranged to meet him at the Athens Bar on Monroe, around the corner from police headquarters.

In an hour, Dick Speed said.

That was fine with Ryan. It would give him a chance to look up probate court records and see if he could learn something about the Allen Anderson family, who were living at 146 Arden Park the year Robert Leary, Jr., was born. There was a connection, or else Leary wouldn’t have been listed with that address.

Ryan had another idea. Before he left the phone booth he called both the Detroit News and the Free Press and dictated an insertion for their personal columns in the classified section. Both for tomorrow’s editions.

He almost called Jay Walt, to tell him what he had learned so far, then decided no, don’t appear eager. Make it look easy.

Ryan and Dick Speed had gone to high school at the same time, Catholic Central. Both had played varsity football and baseball and American Legion ball. Both their dads had worked at Ford Highland Park. Ryan remembered Speed’s brush cut in ’62, the year he graduated from Western Michigan with a Phys. Ed. major. He had tried out as a free-agent defensive back with the Browns, Bengals, Redskins, and Lions and finally put in his application at the Detroit Police Academy. Ryan had thought he’d make the pros on his name alone, Christ, Dick Speed, six-one, two-ten; but Speed found out he couldn’t back-pedal worth a shit and those skinny black wide receivers would show him a hip and be on their way.

Dick Speed had hair now, layers of it, and choker beads and tight faded Levi’s and a.357 Mag that was almost as big as Clint Eastwood’s.

Sipping his Stroh’s in the Athens Bar, he told Ryan he was with Squad Six now-a special unit of the Criminal Investigation Division that handled drug-related homicides: a lot of execution-type killings where the guy was tied up and gagged and shot in the head.