He wasn't happy, but he did pick up the keys attached to the chain on his belt. He unlocked the door and opened it a cautious three inches. "What do you want? I can't be doing this unless you're one of the tenants."

"I know, but Kinsey left her bag upstairs and she needs her car keys and wallet."

Unimpressed, Willard flicked a look at me. "She can come back on Monday. Building opens at seven."

"How's she going to do that? Without her car keys, she can't even drive. I had to pick her up at her house and bring her over here myself. This is her handbag, Will. Do you know what it's like when a woman's separated from her purse? She's going berserk. She's a private detective. She has her license in there. Plus her address book, makeup, credit cards, checkbook, every nickel she owns. Even her birth control pills. She gets pregnant, the burden's on you, so get ready to raise a kid."

"Okay, okay. Tell me where it is and I'll bring it down to her."

"She doesn't know where it is. That's the point. All she knows is she had it when we went up with Marty last night. Now it's gone and that's the only place she went. It has to be there somewhere. Come on. Be a peach. It won't take five minutes and we'll be out of your hair."

"Can't. The alarm system's on."

"Marty gave me the code. Honest. He said it's fine with him as long as we cleared it with you first."

The long-suffering Willard opened the door and allowed us in. I thought he'd insist on coming upstairs with us, but he was serious about his monitoring duties and didn't want to leave his post. Reba and I took one of the two public elevators, which made the four-floor journey at an agonizingly slow pace.

"You sure you know the code?" I asked.

"I watched Marty do it. Same code we had before when I was working for Beck."

"How come he's such a nut about security and so careless about his codes? Sounds like anybody who ever worked for him could get in."

Reba waved the observation away. "We used to change 'em all the time – once a month – but with twenty-five employees, somebody was always messing up. The alarm would go off three and four times a week. The cops came out so many times, they started charging fifty bucks a pop."

The doors slid open and Reba hit the Stop Run button while she stepped out of the elevator. I leaned around and watched as she punched in the seven-digit code: 4-19-1949. "Beck's birthday," she said. "For a while he used Tracy's, but he was the one who kept forgetting that date so he switched to his own."