The widow who owned the boardinghouse where Ahearn lived—a Mrs. Barnes—stared at Nick. “He lives here all right. With his mother and frail sister. In a set of rooms on the third floor.” “Is he there now, Mrs. Barnes?” Nick asked. “I need to speak with him.” “It’s Sunday, Detective. He’s at that restaurant he likes down the street. Not that he ever treats his family to a nice steak. Just goes by himself. To meet those friends of his,” she said, her scornful tone suggesting what she thought of Connor Ahearn’s friends. Mrs. Barnes gave him the name of the restaurant and where Nick could find it. “Do you have time for some questions?” he asked. “About Mr. Ahearn?” Nick nodded. “Come into the parlor. It doesn’t pay to be overheard talking too much about him.” She led Nick into the parlor off to their right and slid the pocket doors shut. A hodgepodge of frayed upholstered chairs in clashing colors was scattered about. In one corner a black-and-white cat, its tail flicking, examined them from behind a dying potted palm.
