Like Barbara Herrmann, some CdLS individuals have subnormal mental ability. Based on the exchange with Ollie, I doubted that was the case with Devereaux.

“We’re coming in now.” Ollie’s voice had lost some of its tough cop tone. I could tell from his face that he, too, was shocked. Ditto Ryan, though he hid his reaction better.

Devereaux watched in silence as the three of us stepped from the top riser and circumvented the shattered lamp lying on a rectangle of tile inside the door.

The room was maybe twelve-by-twelve. In addition to the daybed, it held a wooden table and two captain’s chairs, a dresser, and shelving filled with a scramble of clothes, purses, toiletries, and magazines. The wall-mounted TV looked like something you’d see in a hospital.

The right side of the room was a kitchenette with an undersize fridge, a sink, and a stove arranged shotgun-style along one wall. Its floor was done in the same tile as the entrance, setting the space off from the carpeted living/sleeping area. The sink and small counter were heaped with dirty dishes and utensils, open cans, and the remains of fast-food meals.

From the kitchenette, a short corridor led to a closet and a bath. Both doors were open, and both overhead lights were on. The rooms looked like bombsites, with garments, linens, makeup, laundry, footwear, and a mix of unidentifiables jumbled on the floors and draped on the fixtures or hung haphazardly from doorknobs, towel and closet bars, and the shower rod.

Ollie plucked a shiny green robe from a chair and tossed it onto the bed. Devereaux ignored it.

“Foxy’s not happy,” Ollie began.

“Bitch never is.”

“Says you had a groovy high going last night.”

Devereaux raised a palm and one bare shoulder. So?

“Foxy wants you out.”

“Foxy wants a lot of things.”

“Do you have a lease?”

“Sure. I keep it in the safe-deposit box with my estate planning papers.”

“Then you have no legal right to stay.”

Devereaux said nothing.

“Time to go, Aurora.” Ollie sounded almost sympathetic.

Devereaux snatched a small plastic bottle from the bedside table. Raising her chin, she inhaled antihistamine into one nostril, then the other.

While waiting out the noisy process, I took in more detail. The place was devoid of personal items. No photos, fridge magnets, knickknacks, or macramé plant holders.

In addition to the antihistamine, the bedside table held a half-empty bottle of Pepto and a mound of bunched tissues. Recalling another symptom of CdLS—gastroesophageal reflux disease, a condition that can make eating unpleasant—I felt a wave of compassion for the childlike woman in the bed.

As Devereaux blew her nose with a thoroughness I had to admire, I edged toward the hall for a closer look at the closet, being as discreet as possible. My movement wasn’t lost on our hostile hostess.

“Where the hell’s she going?”

“Never mind her,” Ollie said.

“The fuck, never mind. I don’t like strangers sniffing through my undies.”

“Ms. Forex left a duffel in the closet,” I said. “We have permission to search it.”