At nine o’clock, she left the house with the cash and a headache that seemed to have put its feet up on her frontal lobe and had plans to stay the day. After initializing the ADT system, she stepped out, closed the door and turned the dead bolt with her key—

Frowning, she stared up at one of the two wrought-iron lanterns by the entrance. A small strip of white cloth had been wound around its base.

Pivoting on her heel, Grier looked all around and saw nothing but parked cars she recognized . . . and a neighbor walking a chocolate Lab . . . and a couple strolling arm in arm . . .

Get a grip, Grier.

She was not in a Hitchcockian world where people were followed and planes dive-bombed from midair and secret signals were left on light fixtures.

Unwinding the scrap of fabric, she shoved the thing in her coat pocket so as not to litter and went over to her Audi. As she walked off, she engaged the big alarm—even though she didn’t usually do that if she wasn’t in the house.

Down at the police department, she met with a detective, turned the money over, and gave a statement. Attorney-client privilege did not extend to ongoing criminal activity, so she was required to say what she knew about the fighting ring, Isaac’s participation in it, and the location where she believed they would still convene out in Malden.

While time passed and she talked, she had a growing conviction that Isaac was far gone by now—and chances were good no one from Boston would find him.

She had to wonder who would, however.

Two hours later, she stepped out of the precinct and stared up at the yellow sun in the cloudless spring sky. The warmth on her face made the cold breeze feel even more frigid, and the rest of the day loomed over her.

Her car didn’t take her home.

It was supposed to. She sent it in the direction of Beacon Hill with the intention of crawling back into bed and getting some more sleep.

She ended up on Tremont Street.

As she went around the block where Isaac’s apartment was, naturally there was no place to dump the Audi, and it was probably a sign for her to stay away. Persistence got her into trouble, though, when a VW Bug shuffled out and left a void. After wedging in, she locked up and went over to the house.

Knocking on the front door, she hoped that the landlady was home—and never thought she’d be glad to see someone like that again—

The woman opened up and Grier made the connection she hadn’t the day before: It was Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company. From the fake red curls to the plastic bangles.

“You’re back,” was the greeting.

“I just need to get in one last time.”

“Where is he?” the landlady said, blocking the way.