Ah, yes, an information tollgate, Grier thought. “He was here last night. Didn’t you hear him?”

Cue Jeopardy theme. Then . . . “The man’s like a ghost,” Mrs. Roper-esque bitched. “Never makes a noise. Only way I know he’s there is that he already paid next month’s rent. He’s in jail, isn’t he. Are you his attorney?”

“No.” She hated lying. She truly did.

“Well, I think—”

As the sound of a phone ringing cut her off, Grier was ready to kiss whoever was calling.

Except the landlady batted the air with a dismissive hand. “That’s just my sister.”

Great. “Will you take me upstairs, please? I won’t be long.”

The ringing went silent. “Look, I’m not going to keep doing this. Get your own key.”

“Oh, I agree—I need one. And I apologize.”

The woman mounted the stairs like a bull, pounding up and grunting, today’s muumuu swinging like a flag.

At the top, she unlocked the door with her key. “Now, I’m telling you—”

The phone started ringing again downstairs, and as that wig went to and fro, it was like a dog stuck making the choice between two tennis balls.

“I’ll be back,” Mrs. Roper announced gravely.

Kind of like the Terminator had gone drag queen.

Left on her own, Grier stepped inside Isaac’s place and closed herself in, throwing the lock in the hopes that if the call didn’t last long, that woman would assume it was a come-and-gone situation.

A quick review of the living room proved that he’d been by, but that was an of-course: The gun he’d pulled on her last night had to have been one of the ones she’d found and the sweatshirt he’d been wearing was what he’d used as a pillow. He hadn’t taken everything, however. The sleeping bag was left behind, as well as some workout pants and a pair of Nikes—although the sensors on the windows and doors were gone.

In the kitchen, she found a neat pile of bills—clearly, they were an offering so that when no more rent was paid the score would be settled.

Leaning against the counter, she had no idea what she’d expected to find—

A soft creaking sound brought her eyes over to the rear door. When there was nothing else, she figured she’d imagined the footstep . . . but then the latch to the dead bolt turned slowly.

She straightened, her heart going haywire as she put her hand into her purse and got her Mace ready, which was better than the stun gun, given the distance. “Isaac?”

Except it was not her AWOL soldier.

The man who entered the apartment had black hair and tanned skin and he was wearing a dark suit under a trench coat. A patch covered his right eye, and he used a cane to balance his tall body.