“I’m Agent Cross with the FBI.” I held up my ID, which included my shield. “May I come in and ask you a few questions? It’s important.”

Her tired face sagged. “It’s about the car, isn’t it? Lord, I wish I could just paint that thing or trade it in or something. I’ve been getting all kinds of embarrassing looks—you wouldn’t believe.”

Her manner was more outgoing than anything I’d seen at the hotel, but she had the beleaguered, animated quality of a public-school kindergarten teacher with way too many students.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “It is about the car. Just a formality; we’re following up on as many blue Suburbans as we can. May I come in? It won’t take long.”

“Of course. I don’t mean to be rude. Please, come on inside. Come.”

I waved to Baker on the curb.

“Five minutes,” I called out, mostly just to let Ms. Wagner know I wasn’t alone at her house. Hopefully, the unmarked LAPD units up and down the street were more invisible to her eyes than mine.

I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. Adrenaline shot through my body in an instant. Was this woman a killer, possibly an insane one? For some strange reason, I didn’t feel threatened by her.

The neatness of the house made a strong first impression on me. The floors were recently swept, and I saw no signs of clutter anywhere.

A wooden cutout hung in the front hallway. It was in the shape of a curtsying farm girl with the word Welcome stenciled across her skirt. The relative disrepair outside, I suddenly realized, was the landlord’s domain. This was hers.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Mary Wagner gestured me toward the living room through an archway to my right. A mismatched sofa and love seat took up most of the room.

Her television was on mute, and a can of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the worn redwood coffee table.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” I asked. “I’m real sorry about that.” Not that I was going to leave.

“Oh, no, no, not at all. I’m not much of an eater.” She quickly turned off the TV and cleared the food away.

I stayed in the hall and glanced around while she put the dishes on the kitchen counter in the back. Nothing looked out of place. Just a regular house that was almost too neat, uncluttered, spick-and-span clean.

“Would you like something to drink?” she called out from the other room.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Water? Soda? Orange juice? It’s no bother, Agent Cross.”

“I’m fine.”

Her journal was probably here in the house, but nowhere that I could see. She’d been watching Jeopardy! on TV.