Before heading back to the hospital to see if Pepper could help with the alarm code and key problem, I popped home to check on the dogs and to pick up those blankets for Jack. I had almost forgotten them with all the drama and it was getting late in the day.

After Truffle and Sweet Marie had a quick walk, a snack, and a fast but halfhearted training session, they turned their tails toward me and went back to sleep on the sofa.

I headed downstairs to Jack's apartment to find the blankets. Jack hadn't exactly said where I'd find these alleged blankets. Most of his storage was for bike parts. I'd given up pestering him about it, even though I'd truly believed that once he had the shop, he wouldn't store quite so much bike junk in what was supposed to be his home. Still, I persevered and eventually ended up at the armoire in his bedroom where he kept his collection of Hawaiian shirts, baggy shorts, and scary Lycra racing gear. The blankets were folded neatly and stacked on the top shelf.

Of course, the shelf was too high for me to reach. Jack might be six feet and a bit, but I don't quite make it to five. I glanced around. Naturally, Jack did not need ladders. I checked my watch. I had to get going if I was going to accomplish anything with the rest of the day. I blame it on the stress of the situation, because I did what I always tell people not to do. I took what seemed like the easy way. Instead of heading back upstairs to my apartment where there was a perfectly good stepladder, I jumped up and grabbed the corners of the bottom blanket and tugged. It wasn't as if they could break, right?

Both blankets tumbled to the floor. That part was good, but the shoebox that had been apparently sitting on them tumbled, too. Crap. We all have stuff in our closets that we don't want anyone to see. That's my theory. Of course, I hadn't included Jack in this theory, because he is the most transparent person I know. Still, as the box hit the floor and spilled open, photos fluttered around.

I scrambled around to gather them up. There were old Polaroid photos of his plump, perfect parents. Shots of us misfits standing around the kitchen while Jack's roly-poly mum made cookies. Photos of us in Halloween costumes, also courtesy of Jack's mother. Nice images of Jack's dad and the gang on a sled on the toboggan hill. Pepper in pig-tails, Margaret short of a tooth, me standing on a chair seeming to give orders. Good times. I gathered them up, feeling the ache of memory as I thought of the Reillys and the difference they'd made in all our lives, not only by adopting Jack, then a gangly boy with spiky hair, but also in the kind and nurturing way they had treated all us misfits. I hadn't realized that Jack still had these photos. I wondered why he'd never trotted these pictures out at one of our events. As I picked up the photographs one by one, glancing at each, I came upon my graduation photo. "Charlotte" was written on the back in Jack's casual scrawl. Then the shot of me leaving Woodbridge to head to New York City, the first big job. A blurry print of me on campus during the early college days. Then next to the Miata. There was one of me at Margaret's wedding party months earlier, and another one, I guess you could call it candid. I was asleep on my sofa surrounded by wiener dogs, my mouth open, drooling, with an empty bowl of popcorn on my chest. I didn't find any shots of Sally, Margaret, or Pepper, but I found dozens more of me.

I had no idea what order the photos had been in before the box had fallen out, but I straightened them up in what seemed to be a Jack-like arrangement. I headed back up the stairs, got the stepladder, brought it down, and replaced the box on the shelf. I closed the door and took the stepladder back upstairs again. I loaded the blankets into the rented Matrix and headed out. I didn't let myself think much more about the photos, because I couldn't figure out what the hell that was all about.

I dropped off the blankets to Jack and Little Nick. The baby was happily gurgling in Jack's arms, distracting Jack from a couple of guys who were vying for his attention. Apparently they were desperate to order DT Swiss wheels, whatever they were. I didn't want to break up that happy scene, so I left the blankets and went straight to the hospital. At this rate, Jack would need to bring his part-time repair guys in for more hours and put them to work in sales, too.

Luckily there was a new cop guarding the room, an officer I recognized from the crime scene. He looked to be a few years past retirement, one of those guys who didn't want to give up the job. He let me through to visit Pepper on her say-so, although I knew he was keeping a fatherly eye.

"Pepper," I said brightly knowing the cop was listening. "You asked me to pick up your toothbrush and a few toiletries, but I couldn't get into the house."

She opened her swollen eyes and said, "What? Oh, right. I'll have to give you my key."

"Great. I'll go pick up whatever you need and bring it right back."

She blinked. That looked painful. "I don't know where my keys are."

"The keys were in your vehicle. Oh hell, Tierney must have them."

"I'll have to ask him to bring them in," she said.

First I said, loudly, "Yes, maybe do that tomorrow." Then I leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "I don't want him to know that I'm going there."

I didn't mention that we had no idea where Nick's house keys were. Did the police have those, too?

"Right," she mouthed.

I fished a piece of paper out of my purse.

Pepper wrote, Mavis Morley. Cleaning lady. And CODE 7622#. Front and back doors.

Of course, Pepper had someone clean her house when she was working. She scrawled the name, address, and telephone number. She scribbled, You distract him-she stopped writing long enough to point to the hallway-and I'll call her and tell her to hand them over. Pass me the telephone.

I complied, then grinned and stepped into the hallway.

"Excuse me, Officer," I said, beckoning him away from the door. I lowered my voice. "I don't want her to hear me."

He glanced toward the door and said, "I can't leave my post."

I whispered, "You don't need to. Step away so that she can't hear us. Keep your eye on the door."

"What is it?" he said when we'd moved a few yards down the corridor.

"I need to know what you've found out about Detective Monahan's husband."

"I can't tell you that," he blustered. "That's up to the brass. They'll make a briefing."

"We've all been friends since we were kids. I am worried about her. Do you think he means to harm her? I mean would he come in here and-?" I gave him my best expression of alarm.

Oddly enough, I thought this guy wasn't buying the idea of Nick as the deranged husband, either. I said, "Because if it wasn't him, it was sure somebody, and I need to know what kind of person you're looking out for."

"You actually need to mind your own business," a voice said behind me. I whirled to find Tierney, back again. Didn't the man have any work to do? "This officer is far too experienced to fall for your cheap tricks."

"Guess you're right," I said, sheepishly. "Sorry. You can't blame me for trying. By the way, Pepper's wondering where her keys are. She's hoping I can go over tomorrow and pick out some toiletries."

"I could send a uniform," Tierney said.

I shook my head. "Too personal. Whenever you're ready to give up the keys, let me know. I'll say good night to Pepper now."

Pepper gave me the high sign as I left, and then she turned an anxious eye toward Tierney. Tierney didn't think I should stay on to hear whatever he had to say.

Mavis Morley's kind face was full of questions, but she handed over the key without a fight. "I sure hope Mrs. Monahan's better soon."

I nodded. "Me, too."

"It's hard to believe that Mr. Monahan would do such a thing," she said, shaking her tight gray perm. "There was never any sign of anything like that."

"No," I said, "there wasn't."

"I don't hold with that at all, wife beating. I didn't think he was the type. Her, neither."

"We'll wait and see what the police turn up. They haven't proved that he did it."

"But they're looking for him."

"Yes, but I'm not convinced, and his wife's absolutely not convinced."

"The poor thing. But that's often the way, isn't it? They can't accept that it happened to them."

I pulled up in front of Pepper's house and noticed the unmarked car parked two houses down the street. My favorite bright young officer was sitting in it looking alert and on the ball. I was pretty sure he'd already spotted me, too. So much for checking out the Monahan house surreptitiously. I got out of the Matrix and walked back to his car, hoping for a chance of picking up some new information.

"No luck yet?" I said.

"No sign of him." I imagined he was thinking, This is Nick Monahan. Anything's possible.

I added, "I don't suppose he'll come home when there's an APB out for him."

He shrugged. "Or if he saw me talking to you for that matter. That might scare him off."

"You're right. You guys could do better in the camouflage department."

"Tell me about it," he said with a quick grin. "I'm only a foot soldier. I don't get to make those strategic decisions."

"Nice to see you," I said. "Gotta go now. Good luck with your assignment."

"You, too," he said with a wide grin. "Watch out for Tierney. He's on the warpath."

I hoped that meant he wouldn't let Tierney know that I'd been cruising down Old Pine Street.

I made a quick call to my friend, Rose Skipowski, to check how she was doing and to ask a big favor. She was doing fine and she was happy to help. That left me at loose ends. I headed home to Truffle and Sweet Marie. We had a walk, they had some food, and I tried a bit of training. When the dogs took their hourly nap, I sat at my little desk and made a list of the things that were bothering me.

Top of the list was Where's Nick? followed by: If he's still alive, what is Nick afraid of?

Who hurt Pepper? And why?

Will they try again?

Why did Pepper go to Bakker Beach?

The issues about Anabel Beauchamp, her tragic death, and her mother's obsession would have to go on a separate list. There was so much to worry about that it put my little no-barking project with Truffle and Sweet Marie into perspective, that was for sure. The worst part was that there wasn't much I could do to find answers to any of those questions.

18.

Stop buying items that are almost identical to those you already own! You'll save money and have a more varied and workable wardrobe. Sell or give away underused duplicates.

I took an ice cream break before I picked up Ramona's file to have another look at the information there. Reading it in CYCotics hadn't been ideal for concentration. I had stopped reading closely in the excitement of spotting Brad Dykstra's name as the paramedic who'd been first to the scene when Anabel died. Now, I took my time and read closely and carefully. Nick Monahan's name appeared in one of the articles as one of the officers at the site. I decided it was worth it to try and find the name of the other officer so I could ask him or her about Nick's behavior. In the third clipping an Officer Dean Oliver was quoted. Got him now, I said to myself. I wasn't sure exactly what I'd be asking this Officer Oliver, though, so when I finished checking through the files and clippings, I decided to take a little trip. There was still plenty of June evening before it got dark. And the time was right.

Truffle and Sweet Marie were quite happy to come along with me and try a walk in another neighborhood. We piled into the Matrix. I parked two blocks away from the construction site, took the doggies and the roll of brightly colored poop bags, and set out. "No barking," I admonished.

It was a soft and fragrant evening, the end of a beautiful sunny day that I hadn't enjoyed at all. The old lilac trees here and there were at their peak, and the scent was wonderful. The warm days and convenient heavy rains in the middle of each night had been great for the greenery. Woodbridge was in bloom. I noted a small but steady amount of traffic in the area. The man I'd seen previously with the jaunty straw fedora whizzed by on his motorized scooter, setting off a blizzard of barking from my canine companions. He tipped his fedora at me and seemed to find the dogs amusing. That was more than I felt as the dream of therapy dog success continued to fade. As we sauntered along, we passed an elderly couple out for a stroll. Luckily they didn't have a dog for Truffle and Sweet Marie to bark at. A police car drove slowly down the street, and a man in a leather jacket melted away before it did its slow roll past. I could tell from his shape and movements that he was young. Dimitri? I couldn't be sure. We strolled past the point where he had disappeared. I saw there was a dingy alley leading to nowhere that could be any good.

As we approached the construction site, I slowed, pretending to wait for the dogs to sniff every pole. A yellow pickup with the construction company logo was parked nearby. It was exactly the kind of fence that the misfits used to hurl themselves over for the hell of it, when we weren't in Jack's basement watching slacker movies.

I stopped and stared as the gate to the site stood open. I couldn't believe my eyes. How could this company be so careless after what had happened to Anabel? I reminded myself that the truth was, I didn't know what had happened to Anabel. I stepped closer to the door and let Truffle follow his twitchy black nose into the opening. I followed and found myself staring at a pair of work boots. I glanced up and met the eyes of a scowling man with a yellow hard hat. Make that two men in hard hats. The second one grinned and pointed at Truffle and Sweet Marie, who had joined him.

"Oops," I said. "The gate was open and the dogs pulled me in."

"It's a dangerous spot, miss," the second man said. "Especially for wiener dogs." He bent down to let Truffle and Sweet Marie sniff his hand. They might bark at babies and little old ladies, but they wagged their tales at this huge, scary individual. Not barking? Maybe that was good news for my training project.

"Isn't this where that terrible accident took place?" I asked. "It is dangerous. I'm surprised the door was still open."

The first man said, "That gate was open because we're here to check out something in the site. It's not open to the public, and I have to ask you to move back onto the sidewalk. We have insurance issues."

"I'm sure you must," I said.

"The project is about to go ahead again. And we'd like everyone to stay alive. The mud is real slippery," the second man said, standing up again. "You need to have boots with grip."

"Of course," I said, glancing at the foundation, which had even more water in it than the first time I'd peeked through the slot. "Come on, Truffle and Sweet Marie. This isn't a place for us. Remember what happened to Anabel."

Was it my imagination or did the two men exchange that cliche known as meaningful glances?

"That was tragic," the second man said. Mentally, I thought of him as Mr. Friendly, while the other guy had become Mr. Grumpy.

Mr. Grumpy said, "Yeah, and it was brought on by her being in a place that she didn't belong at a time she shouldn't have been here."

I said inanely, "I don't see how she could have fallen into that foundation."

Mr. Friendly said, "But the fact is that she did. And we wish to avoid liability for-"

Mr. Grumpy jumped in. "Idiots who get into places they don't belong."

"Don't mind us," I responded with a smile. "We're on our way. I imagine you'll be getting that foundation pumped out soon."

There were still people around on the street as I exited. Granted it was now June, and Anabel had died in March. But it would still have been light enough at that time of year. After daylight saving starts in March, if the weather's nice, people are happy to step out for a bit in the evening after the dreariness of winter. How could no one have seen or heard Anabel?

Brad Dykstra's comment echoed in my mind. It could have been an accident. Had I exaggerated the doubt in his voice? I stared back toward the site. I knew the wooden formwork around the foundation hole was muddy and high, with nowhere to get a grip. There was still enough water to drown in easily. I could see how the police, never looking to boost either the murder rate or the unsolved rate, would consign it to the "accidental" category.

What the hell had Anabel been doing behind that fence in the first place? The dogs chose to bark at something across the street, and I turned to look. The fedora man zipped by on his scooter again. He waved up at someone in the apartment building. I noticed a figure appear by a row of plants in a second-floor balcony across the street. Did those people worry about the lonely death of a young woman practically under their own windows? Did any of them ask themselves, If only I had glanced out or chosen to water my plants at the right time, could I have prevented that tragic death?

At nine o'clock I settled the dogs in and headed for Rose's place. I was wearing a pair of running shoes, black yoga pants, a stretchy tee, and my jean jacket with a jaunty scarf. Comfortable enough to jump a fence. Rose was happy to comply with the favor, which was to lend me her car.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Lilith asked.

I shook my head. "In case there's any issue, I'd like to keep you out of it. You don't need the cops on your back. Not that I'm doing anything illegal."

Shortly after ten, it was finally dark enough. I cruised down Old Pine Street. I didn't see any signs of the unmarked car. Maybe they were getting smarter. I parked around the corner and sneaked across the backyard, dodging moonbeams and hoping none of the neighbors spotted me. Luckily the mature trees in Pepper's backyard were in full leaf, so I was probably safe.

The key worked, the code worked, and I was in. I locked the door behind me, in case the smart, young police officer came back and gave it a try.

It was a beautiful night with an inconvenient full moon. I reminded myself that I had Pepper's permission to enter her house. It was not in any way a crime scene, and I didn't have to worry much about the police. Still, I didn't want Tierney knowing what I was up to, even if it wasn't illegal. I didn't turn on the lights. At this point, the full moon came in handy. There were no signs that Nick had been around, although who knows what those signs would be? Based on my theory that everyone has a secret in their closet, I was hoping to find Nick's.

The bedroom closet was full of Pepper's clothing. No surprise. The second bedroom was the nursery.

I tried the closet in the third bedroom. If I had my geography right, this one was right over the front porch. I took a peek out the window. No police car in view. That was good. This was Nick's playroom all right. I found workout gear, weights, and a treadmill set up in front of a television with a DVD player attached. Lots of action DVDs stored underneath. I ran my finger over the equipment. Even in the pale moonlight, I could tell it was dusty. Pepper had said that Nick had been distracted lately, so no great surprise. I opened the closet and found it full of men's clothing. Nick's spare uniform and his neatly pressed shirts, long and short sleeved, were hanging there as well as a lot of casual clothes, neatly hung up, shirts together, casual shirts folded on a shelf, jeans neatly positioned. I found a stack of men's magazines. Nick probably thought Pepper wouldn't touch those, so that he would feel that was a good place to hide something, if he had something to hide, which being Nick he would have to have. Pepper on the other hand would be well aware of the fact that Nick would have something to hide and Nick would think she wouldn't check the men's magazines. I shook them all out, but nothing suspicious fluttered from their pages. So much for my complicated thinking. I felt around the back of the walls and on the shelves about. I stuck my hands in the shoes. Nada.

Was Nick capable of finding an unusual hiding place for anything? I was somewhat hampered by the fact that I had no idea what kind of secret item I might be looking for. I had nothing more than my lame theory.

I jerked my head back out of the closet at a sound. What was that? A scrape? The sound came from downstairs. Had the police officer watching the house spotted me entering the back door? But I'd locked that door behind me. Had a neighbor seen me and alerted the cops? A wave of panic washed over me. Why hadn't I reset the alarm? Where could I hide? The closet seemed a possibility, but it was way too small for me and Nick's clothing.

The scrape had turned into a slight bumping noise, then a soft thump, thump, thump. I have spent enough time with Jack Reilly to recognize that as sock feet on the stairs. I gasped, whirled foolishly, and dived into the end of the closet. I pressed myself to the far wall and did my best to get my breathing under control. I thought I sounded like a locomotive pulling out of a historic station. I stayed slumped in that corner and hoped if worse came to worse that I'd be hidden by Nick's Levi's. Minutes passed. Or possibly hours.

I jerked when the closet door opened, barely surpressed a gasp. I held my breath as somebody rapidly whipped through the clothing. Whoever that somebody was, he was breathing hard. And he was also in desperate need of a shower. Sometimes your deodorant isn't up to the job, and this guy was having one of those days. A cop? I didn't think so. Whatever you can say about them, cops are well groomed, proud of their appearance. As the last pair of jeans shielding me from view shifted, I squeaked in panic. Not that my would-be attacker heard because he screamed. A familiar voice.

I said, "Shh."