The detective scribbled down Lowe’s answer in a small notepad. “And how did you know him?”

“We’re childhood friends. I grew up in this neighborhood.”

“How old was he?”

“What?”

“His age?”

“Same age as me,” Lowe said, confused. “Twenty-five. What difference does that make?”

The detective squinted at Lowe, and then nodded toward the back of the shop. “It appears someone was looking for something here. You got any idea what that might’ve been? Did Mr. Goldberg have any enemies? Anyone harassing him?”

Christ. Was this his fault? Was it Monk or Levin? Couldn’t be. How would they have known? One of Monk’s men? He’d been so careful. And Monk acted like he didn’t know who the forger was when he’d questioned Lowe in Levin’s office at the theater last night.

“I don’t think so,” Lowe said.

“The couple next door—”

“The Ackermans,” Lowe said. “The hardware store.”

“Yeah. The wife said she saw a dame go inside around nine thirty.”

Lowe stilled. “Who?”

“Didn’t know her.” The detective checked his penciled notes. “Black hair. Tall. Dark fur coat.”

Hadley.

“Said she was in there for a quarter hour or so. Left by taxi. As soon as she was gone, a man got out of a blue Cadillac and entered the shop.”

Lowe didn’t know anyone with a blue Caddy. But God almighty, what the hell was Hadley doing over here? She’d tracked down Adam and someone followed her. Who?

“Mrs. Ackerman heard shouting,” the detective continued. “Said she heard Mr. Goldberg telling the visitor to get out. Tried to get into the shop to see what was going on, but the door was locked. Had her husband knock on the door, but no one came. So they called us. We had a patrol car in the neighborhood, but by the time the officer got here, the man had raced out the door and taken off in the Cadillac.”

“Did Mrs. Ackerman get a good look at him?”

The detective nodded. “Dark hair. Tall. Thin. Handsome guy, she said. Her husband got the tag number.” The detective narrowed his eyes. “You know anyone named Oliver Ginn?”

It felt as though the floor suddenly washed out from under his feet. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself and tried to keep his voice light. “His name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it.”

“Well, we can’t seem to place him at all. Dispatch gave us the address listed for the registration, and it doesn’t exist anymore. Destroyed in the Great Fire. Belonged to a man who died. Name of”—he checked his notes—“Noel Irving.”

Oliver Ginn.

Noel Irving.

Inside his shock-fueled brain, the letters rearranged themselves without effort.

An anagram.

A goddamn anagram.

“Anyway, whoever the guy is, we figure he killed your friend and trashed the place looking for something. Probably got scared off when Ackerman banged on the door.”

“How?”

“Pardon?”

“How did he die?” Lowe asked in a voice that sounded far away.

“We aren’t really sure, yet. You say he was twenty-five. The Ackermans and a couple of other neighbors said the same thing, and his identification confirms it.” The detective lifted his hat to scratch his head. “But when we found him, I know this might sound crazy, but he looked . . .”

“What?” Lowe demanded, trying to read the man’s face.

“He looked like an old man.”

Jesus Christ.

Lowe stared at the detective for a suspended moment, a thousand thoughts jumbling inside his head, and none of them jibing . . . until his gaze landed on broken crayons scattered across the floor.

Fall apart later, he told himself, fighting the onslaught of emotion threatening to bring him to his knees. Just keep it together for a little longer.

“Where have you taken Stella?” he asked.

“Pacific Hebrew Orphan Asylum, on Silver and Mission. Everyone said the next living relative would be Goldberg’s father—”

“He’s a drunk,” Lowe said angrily. “Adam wouldn’t let Stella anywhere near him. Not that the old man even gave a damn. Last Adam heard, he was somewhere in Philadelphia.”

“Court will still try to contact him. Anyone else you know? An aunt, maybe? Deceased wife’s family?”

“The girl knows me,” Lowe insisted. “I’ve seen her every week since she was born. I’m her family.”

“Legally?”

Oh, Christ. “She’s deaf. She needs special care,” Lowe argued.

The detective set his hat down on the counter, nodding. “The orphanage director is aware.”

Lowe started to say something else, but another cop signaled for the detective outside. “Listen,” the detective said, “you can petition the court for guardianship. And you can go talk to the ladies at the orphanage—maybe even set up visitation. But we can’t just release her into anyone’s care. I’m really sorry, and I know you’re distraught. Believe me, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure we find out what happened here today. Give me a number where we can contact you. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

Blindly, Lowe pulled out a business card and left it on the counter next to the detective’s hat. And when the man stepped outside to talk with one of the cops, Lowe strode to Adam’s curtained-off storage room at the back of the shop. Without hesitation, he pushed aside an empty crate and popped open a secret panel in the wall. The iron box was still there, thank God.