The Milwaukee where I grew up in the forties was a place where English was often a second language, and each neighborhood had its own tongue. It was a place with corner taverns, where families collected, and a place of churches, many of them transplanted from the old country. I remember the orange streetcars and the motormen in dark blue who watched the fare money drop into the glass box and then gave you a transfer. I remember the Big Band music that played on WTMJ and WEMP, along with Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen, or Fibber McGee and Molly. And I remember it as a safe and solid place, run by a socialist mayor, with four seasons and a settled way of life. So I set my mysteries there, in a big industrial town that had amenities, a town that I remember fondly.