"This is like a stakeout," Rawlins said from the backseat.

"We need binoculars," Orlando added.

"And coffee," Libby suggested. "Even Charlie's Angels drank coffee on stakeouts."

"Doughnuts would be good, too," Rawlins said.

"I've never had a doughnut," Orlando said.

Libby turned around and gave him a shocked stare. "Never? You've been sadly deprived, young man."

Even Rawlins was taken aback. "That could be child abuse."

Orlando sensed an opportunity. "Where could we get some doughnuts?"

Firmly, I cut across their discussion. "We'll just watch, okay?"

Rawlins unbuckled his seat belt and climbed over the seat. He began to rummage in the flotsam of family junk that had accumulated in the back of the van.

"What are you doing?" Orlando asked.

"There might be something we can use." Rawlins's voice was muffled, but determined. "My douche-bag brothers keep all kinds of-"

"Rawlins, please. We're a loving family, and we don't refer to-"

"Like what do they keep here?"

"I dunno, something. Here." Rawlins came up with a skateboard and handed it to Orlando.

"How can we use that?"

"See if you can do better, nerd."

Orlando unbuckled and began to dig through the junk on the van floor.

"Just stay out of my box," Libby said. "Hands off my stuff."

I could suddenly see why even fictional detectives went on stakeouts by themselves. All this togetherness could get on my nerves very soon. "Let's telephone Brinker's number," I said. "If he doesn't answer, we'll know the coast is clear."

Libby forgot about protecting her Potions and Passions inventory and pulled out her cell phone.

"You can't use that phone!" Rawlins cried. "What kind of Charlie's Angel are you? What if he's got caller ID? Your number will show up on his machine!"

"What do you suggest, young man?"

"Pay phone," Rawlins said promptly. "Mick always uses a pay phone, and never one with a surveillance camera nearby."

"Oh, dear heaven," said Libby. "You are grounded, grounded, grounded."

"Rawlins," I said, "why don't you take a walk? Look around for a pay phone. Libby, use your cell to call four-one-one and get Brinker's home number."

"Good idea," said Rawlins. "While I'm at it, I'll sweep the area."

"I don't want to know what that means," I said.

A few minutes later Rawlins slid out of the van and strolled away with the skateboard over his shoulder, blending into the landscape like any other aimless teenager.

"I hope he's careful," said Orlando.

The rest of us kept an eye on Brinker's condo for another fifteen minutes. Spike and Orlando were especially vigilant.

Meanwhile, Libby revealed she'd been contacted by Perry Delbert.

"Who?"

"Perry, the Exterminator. The bug man." She dropped her voice to keep our conversation private from Orlando. "You met him at the bar last night. He called me this morning."

I remembered the shy, bespectacled bear. "What did he want? No, wait, I know what he wanted. Did you give it to him? This morning? With all the kids in the house?"

Libby looked affronted. "We spoke on the phone, that's all. He'd like to see me. Outside the pest-control customer relationship."

"Are you going to see him?"

"I don't know. What do you think? Is he . . . Do you find him a little less attractive than other men I've dated?"

I felt sure I'd never laid eyes on at least half the men Libby had been with over the years. And Libby seemed to have a different concept of what an attractive man was. She tended to demand little more than a libido and a sense of erotic adventure. "He's a little . . . rugged."

"More Jeremiah Johnson than the Sundance Kid?"

"What?"

"He's not exactly Robert Redford at his best."

"Well, the sideburns are a little much."

Frowning, Libby pulled the rearview mirror sideways so she could study her own appearance. She rearranged her hair and tugged at her bra. "I have never found sideburns alluring, although I recognize that they can be an outward manifestation of a very manly inner soul. Maybe it's a personal prejudice I need to overcome. Maybe Perry is exactly the man to help me overcome it."

I could sense where she was headed. "I'm sure he has other attractive attributes."

"Exactly. Exploring for good qualities can be a fulfilling personal quest." But she shook her head. "He abandoned me once before, though. A man who discards a woman in her time of need is bound to do it again."

"Libby, he came to your house to get rid of some ants. He wasn't ready to become the father of five children and fulfill your . . . um . . . manifestations."

She considered my opinion. "All right, at the time of our first encounters, maybe my situation was fraught with too many daunting responsibilities. To flourish, a relationship can't have too many initial obstacles, right? Maybe I should give him a second chance."

I was feeling charitable. After all, Libby had been very kind to me lately. So I gave her the opinion she wanted to hear. "Maybe you should."

She sighed. "We should have more of these sisterly discussions, Nora."

Rawlins saved me from further sisterly discussion by appearing at his mother's window. She rolled it down, and Rawlins leaned in. "Nobody's at home," he reported. "The coast is clear. We're ready for phase two."

"Phase two?" Libby asked.

"Get in the car, Rawlins," I said.

I gave Libby some simple instructions, then popped open the door.

"Be careful," she said. "I don't want to have to call the police, but if you're not out here soon-"

"Don't call the cops. No matter what. That will only make Michael look guiltier."

Before I could close the door, Spike jumped to the sidewalk.

"No," I said to the dog. "I'm not taking you."

Rawlins came around the minivan with his skateboard. "I'm coming, too."

"No, you're not. I'm going in alone and-"

The rear passenger door slid open and Orlando hopped out. "Me, too. I want to come."

"Forget it," I said. "No way."

"We'll look like a family," Orlando said.

"Yeah," said Rawlins, looking stubborn. "It'll be good cover. Besides, Mick will kill me if he hears I let you do this alone."

I eyed my nephew and saw a number of Blackbird qualities in his young face-qualities that told me an argument was going to be useless. And Orlando looked so hopeful that I knew I couldn't crush his heart by leaving him behind.

I sighed. "Somebody remind me not to have sons. Okay, you two, let's go. But I don't want either one of you to say a word or do one single thing without asking me first. I'm serious, Rawlins. Promise me, or I'm leaving you here."

When Rawlins mumbled his promise, I picked up Spike and put him into my bag. We left the minivan and set off for Brinker Holt's building, doing a very plausible impression of a real family. Rawlins slouched sullenly at my side, and Orlando trailed behind us, lugging his backpack and whining for us to slow down.

Chapter 16.

Brinker's building was a former waterfront warehouse that had been gentrified by a developer who had visions of exposed bricks, working fireplaces and million-dollar price tags. Now a series of expensive loft apartments that faced the water, the place was a prime address for people who pooh-poohed material things, yet wanted to live in splendor and with a convenient commute to the symphony, ballet and theater district. Starbucks planned to open soon on the first floor, according to a posted sign. An automated teller machine gleamed nearby, money available twenty-four/seven.

We arrived at the front door, which was a huge plate-glass entrance located under a canopy an architect had designed to resemble the sail of a clipper ship. A tall canister ashtray sat beside the door, overflowing with plastic coffee cups, cigarette butts and ATM slips.

I pulled out the small envelope I'd picked up at the hardware store. From inside, I slid a credit cardshaped access key. I approached the magnetic security slot. Holding my breath, I zipped the card through the slot and hoped it worked.

A horrendous buzzer sounded, making us all jump, but I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Miraculously, the door opened. The card had worked.

"Cool," said Rawlins.

Conscious of the overhead cameras that recorded our arrival and perhaps broadcast it to a nearby security team, we crossed the lobby with manufactured confidence. The lobby was so sterile it might have been decorated by a scrub nurse. A single banana tree grew in a huge pot near the elevator.

We reached the elevator, and Orlando hit the "up" button. The elevator doors opened and we stepped into the car. Brinker lived on the top floor. Spike poked his head out of my bag and suggested we snap it up.

The elevator was large and had been designed to mimic a freight elevator in an industrial building. The walls were padded with heavy matting used to cushion cargo. Huge iron rings, also a design choice by a decorator going whole hog with a theme, had been bolted into the corners. I swiped the card again, punched a button. The elevator obeyed.

"Sometimes," I murmured, "it's nice to know criminals."

Once on the top floor, the elevator doors opened and I tucked the access card into my pocket for safekeeping. Then we stepped into Brinker Holt's loft.

"Wow," said Rawlins.

The huge empty space stretched before us, gleaming bare wooden floors leading to the exposed brick walls. Giant windows overlooked the seaport. A huge Brinker Bra poster leaned against the wall opposite the elevator, the only art in the place. Brinker's giant face glowered at us.

Tentatively, I called, "Hello? Anybody home?"

No answer. Orlando sighed heavily. My heartbeat slowed closer to normal.

Rawlins set down his skateboard and wandered into the apartment. Orlando and I followed uneasily.

Brinker had come into a lot of money recently, thanks to his fire insurance, of course, and he'd obviously spent it on electronic equipment, not interior comforts. The biggest television I had ever seen in a private home had been mounted on one wall with a spaghetti tangle of wires hanging down to the floor. Rawlins looked for an "on" switch.

The rest of the furniture amounted to a single black leather sofa and a single floor lamp-a long, arching metal arm with a dish-shaped lamp on the end. No rugs, no art on the walls, no throw pillows for color.

The windows were undraped. I found myself drawn to the magnificent views. To the north I could see the piers. To the west stood the tower of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell Pavilion, and I even glimpsed the trees at Washington Square.

But Brinker appeared to be more focused on the view provided by his enormous television. I walked across the wooden floor, my heels making sharp sounds in the empty space. Orlando followed me closely, his shoes scuffling.

In the kitchen-a space separated from the rest of the loft only by a long marble-topped counter-I made a grim discovery beside the Sub-Zero fridge-a pile of Styrofoam containers that came from a local gourmet diet food delivery service that promised, "Great taste and lose the weight!" The smell of spoiled salad dressing hung in the air.

On the kitchen counter beside the deep-bowled double sinks and heavy brass faucet someone had left a gift basket of flavored olive oils. I looked for a card, but it had been thrown away. Alongside the gift basket stood a cardboard carton emblazoned with the Brinker Bra logo. The box had been opened. It was full of Brinker Bras.

Around the corner from the kitchen lay an unmade bed with red satin sheets. A camera tripod stood beside the bed. I blanched at the sight of it, guessing what Brinker might have recorded there.

Orlando came in behind me and said nothing.

Across from the bed was a whole wall of small televisions. I caught my breath as I saw they were all turned on, no sound. I could see my own live image on two of the screens, two different camera angles.

The other screens showed various views of the apartment. I could see Rawlins on two more screens, and Orlando on another. I glanced around and spotted two cameras mounted high on the walls and constantly recording. Under the window on the floor stood a line of enough VCR machines to keep CNN in business.

I went over to the machines. Turn them off? Take the tapes?

Then I noticed the mountainous stacks of videotapes that leaned against the wall. Hundreds of tapes. Maybe thousands. I bent closer to look.

Here, Brinker had been more meticulous. Two large stacks of action-adventure movies were organized alphabetically. Several more stacks of Brinker's own work were stacked alongside. Each tape had been marked with names, carefully printed in the same hand.