McFeeley told the parents he would escort them to police headquarters in a half hour. Before that, he wanted to talk to the neighbors. He did not want to bring the Andruses to the station house too early -- Rheinholdt had summoned a press conference, and he didn't want them subjected to the reporters again. He could think of nothing else to tell them: no assurances, no hopeful hints at great discoveries that day. When the detective left, Andrus phoned his secretary to cancel his work and to advise the network to get a substitute director for his current project. Mrs. Andrus was talking to the maid, arranging for her to come in every day, instead of the four days she now worked.

Outside, only a handful of reporters remained. The bulk of the press corps was covering Rheinholdt's conference. In contrast to the caravan of the previous night, there were only four cars parked across the street. Two men he did not recognize were sipping coffee and munching sweet rolls. He did not see Sparling, or DeGroot, or Ringel, or any of the feverish crew that had so harassed him twelve hours ago. However, the litter remained, augmented by several dozen lunchroom suppers. The street cleaner had not yet been around.

One of the reporters called to him: ``Anything new, Lieutenant?'' And he ignored him, skirting the parked cars and walking up the path to the Skopas house. When McFeeley was halfway to the door, the proprietor emerged -- a mountainous, dark man, his head thick with resiny black hair, his eyes like two of the black olives he imported in boatloads. McFeeley identified himself. The master of the house, his nourished face unrevealing, consented to postpone his departure a few minutes to talk to the detective.