The Thomas Center for Women had originally been built in the twenties as a private Catholic girls’ school, and operated as such into the sixties. Modeled on the style of the old Spanish missions that dotted the length of California, the white stucco buildings and connecting arch-ways formed a large central courtyard. A huge stone fountain gurgled at the center. Beautiful small gardens lined the stone pathways that radiated out from the fountain. Roses the color of fresh salmon were still in bloom. Mexican heather created ribbons of purple beneath them.

Inside the large administration building, the hall was wide and gracious, painted a warm, welcoming ochre yellow. The old Mexican pavers on the floor had been polished to a soft sheen.

The center was a place for women to reinvent themselves. Women from all walks of life who needed and deserved a second chance were welcome here. Homeless women, battered women, women with drug histories and even police records went through the program, which offered shelter, assistance with health care, psychological and job counseling.

It was a remarkable place with a remarkable woman at the head of it.

Mendez and Hicks went to the front desk and asked for Jane Thomas.

She emerged from her office with a look of concern marring her brow. In her early forties, she was a tall and elegant woman. She wore a black-and-white-printed dress that wrapped around her slender frame. Her blond hair had been slicked back into a simple ponytail.

“Detectives,” she said, shaking the hand of Hicks and then Mendez. “I would say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I think you’ll understand if I reserve judgment.”

She had lost a former employee, Lisa Warwick, to the See-No-Evil killer, and had all but lost a client, Karly Vickers. Vickers had survived her ordeal, but had been left deaf and blind.

“We hardly ever show up with good news,” Mendez said.

“And today is no different.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Thomas sighed, resigned. “Let’s go into my office.”

“How is Ms. Vickers doing?” Hicks asked as they went into the spacious office that looked out on the courtyard garden.

“She’s got a long road ahead of her, and it’s all uphill. I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head as she took her seat behind the desk. “She’s had two surgeries now to try to repair the damage to her inner ears, without much success. She’ll never see again. She can talk to us, but all we can do is answer her by writing on the palm of her hand with a finger.