“Yup. Wasn’t too much after she’d come home that she went back out again. This time she had her clothes on and was in a hurry. I mean, I don’t understand you young people, surely I don’t.”

“Did you see her after that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t see her at all today or hear anything?”

“No, I didn’t, but I sleep more in the day than during the night. I don’t know why.”

“Have you seen anyone else?”

“Yes. I saw you this morning. And a man who looked like a police officer was leaving the building earlier, but I don’t know which apartment he was in. It’s not like I stand here all day spying on people, you know.”

“I’m sure you don’t, madam.”

“Well, if you’re a friend, the key’s on top of the door. But you know that already.” And the door closed, indicating the conversation was over.

Paul checked the angle from the woman’s door to Pia’s and figured that she could see Pia’s door only if she had her own door open slightly, as she just had. It was likely she could miss someone coming or going unless she spent the whole day peering out through the crack in the door. If she heard a noise—and her hearing seemed reasonable—and she went to the peephole, she wouldn’t be able to see anything.

Which meant that Pia still might be inside.

Paul went back to Pia’s door. Taking the key down, he opened up.

“Be here, Pia. Be here,” he said quietly. But she wasn’t.

She had been here, though. There were signs of life about the place. A half-empty half-gallon carton of milk stood on the kitchen counter next to a copy of the Monday’s Denver Post. Paul went into Pia’s bedroom, and her chest of drawers was open and apparently some of her clothes gone. He checked in the bathroom and there was no toothbrush, although he couldn’t swear there had been one there earlier.