“With no clothes?”

“He travels light. I’m thinking Vegas because he told Valerie that Cherish wanted to go there.”

“The old projection game? Yeah, Vegas would fit his style, easy for a scumbag to blend in. Okay, enough conjecture. Gimme that.” Pocketing the burglar picks and reaching for the crowbar.

He wedged the point under the box’s lid and bore down. The lid popped up with no resistance and threw him off balance. He fought for equilibrium and I had to swerve to avoid being hit by the bar.

“She left it unlocked,” he said.

“There’s your invitation to search.”

* * *

First came a gray felt cloth, the kind used to keep tarnish off silverware. No money under that, but the box was half-full.

Milo removed each object and placed it on the desk.

Nothing that weighed much.

A yellowed Stockton newspaper clipping, seven and a half years old. Local coverage of Troy Turner’s murder in prison. Troy’s name underlined in red pencil, along with a sentence connecting him to the Malley case. Kristal Malley’s name double underlined.

A pair of woman’s jade drop earrings.

“Any guesses?” he said.

“Maybe Lara’s.”

A black hard-shell eyeglass case. Inside was half a blackened spoon, a cheap lighter, and a crude syringe fashioned from an eyedropper, and a hypodermic needle. Brown gunk soiled the glass. In the red velvet lining of the case, the gold-lettered address of an optometrist on Alvarado.

Under the address, a scrap of paper taped to the inside lid.

Property of Maria Teresa Almedeira.

“Nestor’s mother,” I said. “Nestor swiped it to house his works. After Daney killed him, it became his souvenir.”

Milo reached in the box again and drew out a flimsy knit blouse, royal blue with a horizontal red stripe. Holding it aloft by the sleeves, he checked the label. “Made in Malaysia, size S. This could also be Lara’s.”

I said, “It’s Jane Hannabee’s. She was wearing it the day I met her at the jail. Brand new. Weider was trying to pretty her up.”

“And Daney deprettied her . . .” He examined the garment closely. “Doesn’t look like any blood.”

“He stabbed her in her sleep. She wouldn’t have worn something new. He wrapped her back up in plastic, rummaged through her stuff, took a souvenir.”

“Okay, if the earrings are Lara’s, maybe her mother can verify . . . check this out.”

Photocopy of a county document. Application to foster a child.

The ward in question was a sixteen-year-old female named Miranda Melinda Shulte. Drew and Cherish Daney had both signed the papers but they had never been sent in.

“Number seven,” I said.

Milo rubbed his eyes. “There’s no evidence he killed any other girls. Why her, Alex?”