“I understand, Officer. I know you’re just doing your job. But I don’t know anything about a 911 call, and I’m afraid I’m not prepared to let the police search my home for no reason. I’m sorry.”

I could see him looking over my shoulder through the open door, no doubt hunting for some kind of probable cause that would give them an excuse to come inside without my permission. Then he glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Is there another apartment upstairs?”

“Yes. My grandfather lives there. Edgar Moran.”

“We’d like to talk to him,” the cop said.

“Well, he’s ninety-four, Officer, and not in good health, so I’d really prefer if you didn’t bother him. As I say, this whole thing has to be some kind of weird joke.”

“A joke,” the cop said, chewing on the word like gum.

“That’s right.”

“The 911 caller said his name was Dylan Moran, and he was ready to confess to murder. That doesn’t sound like a joke.”

I didn’t have any trouble summoning anger to my face, because I was angry. Angry and desperate and losing my grip on the world I was in. “Well, that’s crazy, Officer. I’m not a killer. Obviously, I would never call the police and say anything like that.”

The cop was silent for a while. He didn’t believe me, but he also didn’t have any evidence to back up the 911 call. On the other hand, a bloody knife was still sitting on my bedroom floor, and I wasn’t going to let them inside to find it.

“Why would someone make an accusation like that against you, Mr. Moran? That’s a pretty serious thing to do.”

“I have no idea. All I can tell you is, it wasn’t me, and it isn’t true.”

I tried to hide my impatience. I needed the police to go away, and then I could take the knife and find somewhere to dispose of it. I could wipe down the entire apartment, not knowing what other evidence my double had left behind.

The two cops exchanged nervous glances. I could see them wondering if they’d made a mistake, but my hope that they would leave me alone didn’t last long.

On the street, a gray sedan pulled to a stop behind the squad car. A tall, emaciated man in his sixties got out and grabbed a bulging leather briefcase from the back seat. He wore a loose-fitting white dress shirt and pleated brown slacks, and I could see the gleam of a badge clipped to his belt. His thinning gray hair was as tangled as a bird’s nest, and his face had a cadaverous appearance, sunken around his eyes and hollowed out under his cheekbones. He looked as if he should be lying in a hospital bed instead of walking around the Chicago streets. But his unblinking eyes sized me up like a hawk as he came closer, and his mouth bent into the tiniest cocky smile.

“Guys, I’ll take over,” he told the uniformed cops. “Stick around, though, okay? I may need you.”

The two cops deferred to him as if he were a Mafia don. Without another word, they retreated to their squad car, where they leaned against the doors and watched us. The newcomer extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was limp, and his skin felt as dry as dust.

“Mr. Moran? I’m Detective Harvey Bushing. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m not in much of a mood to talk, Detective.”

“Well, when you made that 911 call, it sure sounded like you wanted to talk.”

“That wasn’t me,” I told him.

“Really?” Detective Bushing grabbed a phone from his back pocket, pushed a few buttons, and let me listen to a recording of the 911 call from a few minutes earlier. “That’s not you, huh? Because it sounds like you.”

“I don’t think it sounds like me at all.”

“Well, I know what you mean. My wife tells me I sound like that Ben Stein guy. You know, like in the Ferris Bueller movie? I don’t hear it myself. Anyway, here’s the thing, Mr. Moran. My partner is getting a search warrant for your apartment. I’m going to stick around, and so are my friends out there, until he gets back. You can invite me in or not, but we’re going to come inside sooner or later.”

“A search warrant? Based on a fake 911 call?”

“And other things,” the detective replied.

“Like what?”

“I’m happy to explain all of it to you, if you let me inside.”

“Detective, I swear, this is a crazy misunderstanding. I didn’t make that call.”

“Yeah, I heard you say that. The thing is, if it’s a misunderstanding, how about we clear it up? Because to be totally honest with you, Mr. Moran, I didn’t show up here because of that 911 call.”

“No?”

“No. I was already on my way. See, I’ve had a colleague of mine sitting in a car down the street all night, watching to see if and when you came back home. He got me out of bed a while ago to tell me you were here. And then, as I was driving over here from Glenview, what should I hear on my radio but a report about a really weird 911 call involving you. Funny coincidence, don’t you think? Oh, and believe me, it takes a lot for a 911 dispatcher to consider a call weird.”

“Am I under arrest, Detective?”

“Not at all. I just want to talk.”

“Well, I told you, I’m not talking.”

“That’s okay, too. How about I talk, and you listen?” He held up his briefcase. “I’ve got some things in here you’ll find pretty interesting, but it would be easier to do it inside. We don’t have to go farther than the nearest chair. I had my hip done in the spring, and it’s a bitch to stand for very long. Give me ten minutes. Any time you want me to go, I’ll go.”

I was under no illusions. I knew he was playing me, trying to lay out what he’d learned about me and Scotty Ryan and get me to talk. If he was being honest about the warrant, I also knew that I’d be under arrest as soon as they finished their search. The only thing I could do was run. But I couldn’t do that with the police staking out the front and back of the building.

Without saying anything more, I backed away from the door and let Detective Bushing into my apartment. When we were in the living room, I gestured at the sofa near the front window. I took a chair opposite him. My eyes did a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn’t missed any other incriminating evidence that had been left behind. I noticed Detective Bushing’s eyes doing the same thing.

Then he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photograph of Scotty Ryan. “Do you know this man, Mr. Moran?”

“I thought you were doing the talking, Detective. Not me.”

“Sure. Right. Well, of course you know him. He’s the man who slept with your wife.”

He was baiting me. I tensed and pushed my lips together.

“That’s your wife in the picture there, huh?” the detective said, pointing at the mantel.

“Yes.”

“Very pretty.”

“Yes.”

“I heard about your wife, by the way,” he went on. “That’s just awful. Talk about a coincidence, huh? Your wife dies in a car accident while you’re driving, and then her lover gets killed a few days later, right after you get in a fight with him.”

“If you think I killed him, you’re wrong,” I said, even though the knife used to kill Scotty Ryan was lying a few feet away on my bedroom floor.

“But you were there, right? A witness put you in the house with Mr. Ryan. She identified you right away. She heard shouting, and then you came running out with blood on your hands.”

“If I’d stabbed him, I would have had blood on a lot more than just my hands,” I pointed out, even though I was talking when I should have stayed quiet.

“I don’t recall mentioning that he’d been stabbed.”

“I talked to my mother-in-law,” I said. “I know you did, too. She told me what happened.”

“Ah, sure. Of course. But you admit fighting with Mr. Ryan?”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

The detective nodded. “Sure. I understand. What about your wife? Did you fight with her about her cheating on you?”

I still said nothing, but I felt my heartbeat take off again.

“I mean, if my wife did that to me, I’d break a few windows and probably some other things,” Detective Bushing went on. “And you’ve got a temper, right, Mr. Moran? I know about your assault arrests. People who mess with you get their faces bashed in, don’t they?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Yeah. They probably all had it coming. I get it. Say, you work at the LaSalle Plaza Hotel, don’t you?”

My brow wrinkled with puzzlement at the shift in the conversation. “Yes, that’s right.”

“You handle their events?”

“Yes.”

“Nice place.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I went to a wedding there a few years ago.”

“We do a lot of weddings,” I said.

Detective Bushing dug his fingers into his open briefcase and pulled out a photograph, which he laid on the coffee table in front of me. The picture showed a pretty twentysomething blond woman in a jogging outfit. In the background, I spotted Lake Michigan and the planetarium.

“Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Moran?”

“No.”

He extracted another photograph from his briefcase. This one showed another young, attractive blonde, seated in a restaurant with a drink in front of her.

“How about her?” he asked.

“No.”

He dug into the briefcase again. Another photograph, another blonde.

“This one?”