“Thanks so much for all your help,” Grier said as she slipped inside and shut the woman out in the hall.

Leaning against the wood panels, she took a deep breath and listened to the grousing fade on its way downstairs.

And then she turned around . . . Oh, God.

The barren room was as wilted and lonely as an old man, proving that poverty, like age, was a great equalizer—she could have been in any tenement or drug house or condemned building in any city in any country: The old pine floors had all the gloss of a sheet of sandpaper, and the ceiling had water stains in the corners that were the color of urine. No furniture in sight, not one table or chair or TV. Just a sleeping bag, a pair of combat boots and some clothes in precisely folded piles.

Isaac Rothe’s pillow was nothing but a sweatshirt.

As she stood just inside the apartment, all she could think of was the last place her brother had stayed. At least her client’s was clean and there weren’t hypodermic needles and dirty spoons everywhere: This sparseness did not appear to be the result of an addict’s slanted priorities.

But good Lord, it was still a shocker to remember where Daniel had ended up. The filth . . . the cockroaches . . . the rotting food . . .

Forcing herself to get a move on, she went into the kitchen and wasn’t surprised to find all the cupboards and the drawers and the refrigerator empty. Bathroom had a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and soap.

In the bedroom, which was totally unoccupied, she went into the closet and used the penlight on her key chain to look around inside. The panel that Isaac had described was over to the left and she got it open without a problem.

And yes, there was, in fact, a Star Market plastic bag with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash hidden in the dusty space between the framing boards. Or at least the loose collection of bills looked and weighed like that much money—

Creak.

Grier froze.

Listened hard.

Glancing over her shoulder, she stopped breathing. But all she heard was the thunder of her heart.

When the silence persisted, she shoved the bag back where it had been, replaced the panel and shut the closet again; then she went over to the window across the way. The glass was so damned milky with grime, it wasn’t as if anyone could see in from the outside, and yet she felt as though she was being watched. . . .

Something flashed and she leaned in closer.