As she rode the deserted bus to her building, she thought about alternatives. Leaving town seemed logical—after all, any good-sized city could support a decent pickpocket—but she’d built up so much here. A change in hairstyle? Clothing? Jim was the chameleon, changing to meet the world; she had a set unchanging camouflage, and that was the way she preferred it.

The bus driver, in no particular hurry at this hour, idled at the curb until she opened the building’s front door, a bit of kindness that made her wave thanks. He didn’t seem to see it as he rumbled away, an island of yellow glow in the thick night.

No lurkers in the dim foyer tonight—no muggers, rapists, serial killers. Television to the contrary, she had never seen one except for the kid who’d bowled her over in the mall. She watched the elevator panel over her head count down floors and thought longingly of a hot shower, a cool bed that she could stretch out in, covers she could wrap tight in.

Something moved in the shadows. Robby flinched and backed away as feet scraped, and a body lurched upright.

Velvet, puffy with sleep, technicolor with bruises. She held a thick lumpy suitcase that spilled balloons of garish cloth out of the broken zipper.

“They were in my house,” she said, and burst into weary tears.

“Who was it?” Robby asked, and held out a plate of cookies—store-bought again, to her regret. Velvet ate three in quick succession.

“Paolo, maybe—he’s Ming’s bodyguard. Maybe she’s pissed at me, Jesus, I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was a robbery.”

“No,” Velvet said, and picked up another cookie. She nervously nibbled bits from the edge. “Okay, maybe, they took some stuff, but it was, like, personal, you know? They tore my pictures off the wall, piled all my clothes in the floor, pissed all over the bathroom. Kicked in the TV set. They didn’t have to do that, they could have pawned it.”

Robby nodded slowly and settled back in the cool embrace of her mint green chair. She’d loaded a CD into the stereo, and the cool soothing music of Enya—as Irish as she could stand, lately—floated like mist around the room. Behind Velvet’s bowed head, the Ringling Brothers clown laughed.

“What did they take?”

“Huh?”

“Velvet, what did they take? Drugs?”

Velvet straightened indignantly and brushed her hair back from her face.

“I’m not a junkie,” she snapped.

Robby tipped her head back and sighed toward the ceiling. “Did they take any drugs?”

A pause, and Velvet said resentfully, “No. I don’t use.”

“Then what did they take?”

Velvet stood up and walked nervously around the room, clicking her ragged fingernails on the back of a chair, the wall, a small black table. At the window, she stared out at the sullen orange of sunrise.

“Money,” she said. “There. Happy?”