Snarling under my breath, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to phone Lotty while I waited for the hot water heater to fill again. When I didn’t get an answer I tried Max’s number. It turned out she had gone up to Evanston to stay with him for a few days. She was doing well, or as well as could be expected, but there was a strain between us—guilt on my part, fear on hers. I tried to patch it as best I could, but we didn’t part in our usual harmony.

I was shivering by the time we hung up, and was glad to find the water hot again. I stood under it until the shower began running cool, long after the final traces of Mrs. Frizell’s dirt had gone from my hair. Had Todd and Chrissie bested me in yet another encounter, or was I on to something? It’s true U.S. Met wasn’t a great bank, but Mrs. Frizell had moved her account four months ago, long before Todd and Chrissie entered her life.

Maybe Chrissie worked there—I pictured her going around to all the old people in the neighborhood, getting them to transfer their money to the Met’s noninterest-bearing accounts. I realized I didn’t know if Chrissie worked outside the home. As to the missing title to Mrs. Frizell’s house, maybe that was in a safe-deposit box someplace. Or up by her bed. Since she’d slept with the dogs, maybe she figured her bedroom was the safest place to keep valuables.

I toweled my hair dry and lay down for a short rest. I still had a third stop to make on my day of burglary, and I wouldn’t be able to manage it in my present shape. The phone woke me at nine-thirty: Mr. Contreras, wanting to know if I was angry and punishing him by hiding out upstairs.

I sat up groggily. “I fell asleep.” I cut off his apologies. “I’m glad you called—I need to get up. Be down in five minutes.”

I pulled on jeans and a white cotton shirt with long sleeves—I was still feeling chilly despite the warm summer evening. I looked at the clock again and decided to leave straight from Mr. Contreras’s. Strapping my shoulder holster on, I pushed driver’s license, money, and keys into various pockets. The picklocks dug into my thigh; I took them out and stuck them in the pocket of a denim jacket, which I put on to conceal the shoulder holster. Now I felt hot, but that couldn’t be helped.

When I got downstairs Mr. Contreras had his door open for me. “You didn’t eat, did you, doll? I’m heating your ribs in my toaster oven right now.”