“They clogged up the sinks,” Alex explained. “By the time they broke the windows downstairs and woke anyone up, the damage here was pretty much done.”

Yes, the damage was done, Sydney thought. But it wasn’t over. “The other unit?”

“Up on two. Empty. They did a lot of painting up there, too.” He gave Sydney’s arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry. We’re getting statements from the tenants, but—”

“It was dark,” Sydney finished. “Everyone was asleep, and no one’s going to have seen anything.”

“Nothing’s impossible.” Alex turned toward the babble of voices coming from the lobby, where most of the tenants had gathered. “Why don’t you go on up to Mikhail’s place? It’s going to take a while to calm everyone down and clear them out.”

“No, it’s my building. I’d like to go talk to them.”

With a nod, he started to lead her down the hall. “Funny they didn’t bother to steal anything—and that they only broke into the two empty apartments.”

She slanted him a look. He might not have been wearing his uniform, but he was definitely a cop. “Is this an interrogation, Alex?”

“Just an observation. I guess you’d know who had access to the tenants’ list.”

“I guess I would,” she replied. “I have a pretty fair idea who’s responsible, Alex.” She touched a hand to the ruined banister. “Oh, not who tossed paint or flooded the rooms, but who arranged it. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to prove it.”

“You leave the proving up to us.”

She glanced at the streak of paint along the wall. “Would you?” She shook her head before he could reply. “Once I’m sure, I’ll turn everything over to you. That’s a promise—if you promise to say nothing to Mikhail.”

“That’s a tough bargain, Sydney.”

“I’m a tough lady,” she said steadily, and walked down to talk to her tenants.

By eight o’clock she was in her office poring over every word in Lloyd Bingham’s personnel file. By ten, she’d made several phone calls, consumed too many cups of coffee and had a structured plan.

She’d authorized Mikhail to hire more men, had spoken with the insurance investigator personally and was now prepared for a little psychological warfare.

She put the call through to Lloyd Bingham herself and waited three rings.

“Hello.”

“Lloyd, Sydney Hayward.”

She heard the rasp of a lighter. “Got a problem?”

“Not that can’t be fixed. It was really a very pitiful gesture, Lloyd.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” The sarcasm was brisk, almost careless. “Next time, I’d suggest you do more thorough research.”

“You want to come to the point?”

“The point is my building, my tenants and your mistake.”