ONE
he city was beginning to look deserted. Everybody who
could afford to go to Florida was in Florida. My mother
and father were in Florida， my brother Sam， the
surgeon， was in Florida， my cousin Melvyn， the lawyer， was in
Florida. Even the radio announcer who usually reads the local
weather was in Florida. I can remember a time when Melvyn
couldn t even read the time. I taught him. Now he was in
Florida， sitting by a swimming pool getting a tan all over his
hairy body while I， Benny Cooperman， was here in Grantham.
No matter how I examined it， I couldn t make it come out
looking fair. The coldest part of the winter， with starlings and
sparrows falling stiff from the trees， frost creeping under my
door and climbing the stairs two at a time， and I sat here，
waiting for a client to read my sign: \"Benjamin Cooperman，
Licensed Private Investigator\"， and come in asking me to
solve the sudden disappearance of a long-lost rich uncle.
Nothing easier， in the middle of February: he s gone to
Florida.
From the window I could look down on St. Andrew
Street. The black pavement was chilled white， the frosty breath
of the manholes rose straight up. Not a drop of snow as far as
the eye could see; somehow that made it look even colder. I
tried to find the evidence for cold without snow， just to kill the
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