Not much else inside the desk. One drawer was dedicated to printing paper; another contained a tangle of cable cords. He got up and surveyed the clothes closet. It was used as a spare, holding heavy winter coats, a set of skis, a boogie board, six black party dresses, and a set of luggage.

Her bedroom was also neat. A pink paisley comforter sat atop a queen bed. Two night lamps on either side sat on two identical nightstands, which held a clock radio, a land phone, and a pad and pencil. Decker picked up the blank pad of paper and the pencil. Using a light touch, he rubbed the side of the pencil tip against the pad, the indentations revealing a former grocery list. He put the pad down.

A flat screen had been placed atop an open console. Her clothes closet, on the other hand, was jammed. It was neat-ish but not compulsive. Different sections for blouses, shirts, skirts, pants, and dresses, but not color-coded. Formal wear sat with casual wear. She had lots of shoes and lots of running shoes. Dozens of purses, belts, and scarves, and ten pairs of sunglasses. Nothing designer, just mega-quantity.

Decker checked his watch. It was time to get back, just in case Donatti decided to be a speed demon and come in early. He didn’t want Chris picking up Gabe without his being there. He gave the bedroom a final once-over. On impulse, he walked over to the right nightstand and pulled out the small top drawer. It was crammed with a Sudoku book, several mechanical pencils, a nail file, several Tampex, and a pad of Post-its. The left nightstand drawer had a wheel of birth control pills, the remote control for the TV, and a latched leather-bound book. Decker picked it up

A diary.

Didn’t come across those too often. How lucky is that?

He stowed the diary in his briefcase.

His bedtime reading.

CRYSTAL LARABEE’S APARTMENT was a two-story white stucco building of sixties vintage. She was on the second floor and Marge pitied the person who lived below her. It was amazing how much noise she could make wearing cork-sole wedged shoes. As soon as she kicked them off—with a thud—Marge realized that Crystal was a very petite woman, about five feet tall. The cuffs of her jeans dragged along the floor. She plopped down on her couch and threw her legs on a glass coffee table.

“What time is it? I wanna go to sleep.”

“It’s not late,” Marge lied. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

She yawned. “I’m tired.”

The doorbell rang.

“Who the hell is that?” Crystal said.

“My partner.”

“The guy?”

“Yeah, the guy.” Marge got up and opened the door. “This is Detective Oliver. He drove your car home from the Port Hole.”