“Thank you,” she said. Not always. Her husband called her RB for short. Redhead Bedhead. “Scars? Tattoos?” she asked.

The guy frowned at her. “They all got tattoos. Every single one of these idiots. Can’t be bothered to buy a bar of soap to clean up but they can afford some six-hundred-dollar ink. These two weren’t any different. The redhead had a whole arm full of it and the other had something but I’m not sure what. They really weren’t here all that long.”

“I understand.” Rena picked up the baskets.

“Didn’t happen to see what these two might have been driving?” A.L. asked.

The man shook his head. “I watched them walk up the street until they got to the end of the block. They didn’t get into a car. I guess that’s why I thought maybe they were new to the apartments.”

Rena smiled at the man. “Nice meeting you,” she said. “Food smells good.”

Once she and A.L. were in the plastic booth, she looked at her partner. “What do you think?”

“I think we eat and go find these apartment buildings. Knock on some doors.”

Rena picked up her sandwich. Looked out the big window. “It’s pretty dark,” she said. “How long do you think they’ll search?”

“I suspect most everyone will either self-elect to go or be sent home in a couple hours. They won’t want some tired civilian tripping over tree roots and breaking a neck. And then back at it at first light.”

“Maybe we’ll figure out where she is before that?” Rena said.

“Hope so. Eat up. We’ve got people to talk to.”

“It’s after 9:00. People are going to bed.”

“Then we’re going to wake some folks up.”

There were two three-story buildings. They started with the closest one. The ten-by-ten-inch window on the unlocked front door was filthy. Inside, the floor of the small lobby was covered with early fall leaves. The walls were a dirty gray and most of the graffiti was something that he wouldn’t have wanted his daughter to see. A.L. counted mailboxes. Twelve. That meant four apartments on each floor.

There was no elevator. Just thirteen dirty steps per level. Twenty-six steps later, he knocked on Apartment 312. Waited. Knocked again. Hard enough to shake the door. Nobody answered. Maybe they worked evenings or maybe they were out for a late dinner. Or maybe they didn’t want to answer the door. But he didn’t think so. There was absolutely no noise to indicate somebody was inside. They moved on. At 310, a middle-aged woman cautiously opened the door, maybe a foot or so.

“Detectives McKittridge and Morgan,” A.L. said. He and Rena both held their badges steady. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”