“What?” she managed. “Bill Marshall was hit over the head with a tire jack while fixing a flat on the side of a highway somewhere in upstate New York,” Jean-Léon was saying. “Ask the center. They’ll tell you. It was an unfortunate, accidental crime; I think he was mugged for a few hundred dollars. Your friend Ian Marshall is convinced that Elgin—who is dead, Claire—murdered him. You are on a wild goose chase.” “I’ve got to go. Bye, Dad.” Claire flipped the cell closed. She realized she could barely breathe and that she was shaking like a leaf. Then she stood there in front of the huge storefront window, as still as the mannequins behind her. The crowd hurried to and fro past her, a mass of faceless humanity. Claire took a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. It was impossible. She tried to think clearly. That, too, seemed impossible. Why hadn’t Ian ever told her about his father’s death? No wonder he recalled that the recorded conversation between his father and his Uncle Joe had taken place in 1972, the year of his death.
