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records of the things Callahan’s done to force me out, and my correspondence with all the bureaucrats and lawyers who haven’t helped me. I keep copies of everything, including a letter I sent to Mahoney that he never answered.”
    Then DeMarco saw the gun.
    â€œAw, man, you got a rifle?”
    â€œShotgun. That’s a Ruger over-and-under twelve gauge. I’ve never had to fire it, but I know how.”
    DeMarco figured if she ever did fire it, the recoil would knock ninety-pound Elinore flat on her back.
    â€œI got it before I replaced the wooden door with my new metal one. I’ve been vandalized twice. If anyone tries to break in while I’m here, I’ll blow their asses to kingdom come.”
    â€œWell, that door should keep them out,” DeMarco said. “But . . .”
    Elinore laughed. “A SWAT team couldn’t get through that door.”
    â€œBut I think you should get rid of the shotgun.”
    â€œHey! What would you do if someone broke into your apartment and trashed all your stuff and shit on your bed? Almost all my furniture’s new—well, new secondhand from Goodwill—because they destroyed everything I had.”
    â€œAnd you think these guys you told Mahoney about are the ones who broke in? The McNally brothers.”
    â€œThe McNultys. And I know it was them. I just can’t prove it.”
    â€œHas anyone bothered you since Mahoney held the press conference?”
    â€œNo. But it’s only been a few days. And a cop stopped by once and asked if I was all right. But that won’t last.”
    â€œHow many other tenants are still in the building?”
    â€œHere, let me get your beer and a chair so you can sit.”
    She handed him a Budweiser and a folding lawn chair. She took a seat in the recliner; she was so short her feet didn’t reach the floor. She popped the top on her beer, took a sip, and said, “That hits the spot. I usually have one a day.” She looked at DeMarco for a moment as if she was studying him. “You sort of remind me of my husband. He was a good-looking guy, too, and built like you.”
    DeMarco was a broad-shouldered five eleven. From his Italian father he’d inherited thick dark hair he combed straight back, a prominent nose, and a square chin with a cleft in it. His Irish mother’s only genetic contribution was his blue eyes. He had a hard-looking face—and although he’d been through a few tough scrapes working for Mahoney he’d never thought of himself as a hard man.
    â€œIs your husband still alive?” DeMarco asked.
    â€œNo. Pete died when he was fifty-two,” Elinore said. “He was a fireman and had a heart attack one day going up a flight of stairs carrying a coil of hose that weighed a hundred pounds.”
    â€œHow long’s he been gone?”
    â€œWell, we were the same age and I’m eighty-two, so he’s been gone thirty years now. He was a lot of fun. But hey, life goes on.”
    â€œAnd you never remarried?”
    â€œNah. Who wants to start dating again at fifty? I mean, I know lots of women do. They go looking for a man on those computer-dating sites because they’re lonely or need somebody or something. But I’ve never been lonely. I’ve got lots of friends and I keep busy. I used to be a nurse but after I retired, and before Sean Callahan came along and tried to destroy my life, I did charity work—helped teach kids to read, helped out at a soup kitchen. Don’t have time for that stuff these days, of course.”
    DeMarco couldn’t believe she was eighty-two. She didn’t look it. And there was obviously nothing wrong with her mind.
    â€œI was asking how many other tenants are still in the building.”
    â€œOnly three now. There’s Mrs. Polanski, down the hall from me.”
    DeMarco remembered the one door that was closed when he walked down the hall.
    â€œShe’s only seventy-two