Lipton watched him leave, then turned to Frank and Jose.

They offered their credentials.

With the back of her hand, she waved them off. “Sit.”

The two men took seats on a small sofa. Lipton looked them over as if they were up for auction.

“You… you’re Josephus Phelps… Titus Phelps’s boy. And you”-she shifted to Frank-“you’re Frank Kearney.”

She continued looking at the two detectives, collecting more thoughts. She pursed her lips. “You the two who set up Johnny Sam.”

Jose shrugged. “Johnny set himself up.”

Lipton ignored him. “You said you wanted to talk to me.” She settled back in the chair and rested her hands on the arms. “So… so talk,” she commanded.

The thought came to Frank: She knows. She knows why we’re here.

Jose did it. Without preamble, he did it. “Ma’am, somebody shot and killed your son, James.”

Lipton’s expression didn’t change.

“It was over on Bayless,” Jose continued, “and Pencil-”

Lipton cut in. “I know.”

Her voice came from a dark cavern of grief and anger. It hung in the still air of the garden room. A heartbeat or two passed; then she brought her head forward a fraction of an inch. The motion carried an impression of searching.

“Where is he?”

“Medical examiner’s.”

“They gonna cut him up… my boy.” The final, flat way she said it, it wasn’t a question, it was an indictment.

“Medical examination could help us find who killed him,” Jose said.

Lipton registered zero expression.

“And his car?” she asked, as though toting up a score to be settled later.

“Impounded, ma’am, for evidence.”

Frank asked, “He lived here?”

“Yes.”

“Could we see his room?”

“Why?”

“There might be something there that could tell us something.”

Lipton shook her head. “Not gonna have my boy’s room tore up.”