He’s right here, blocks away. Of course he is. “Do you have a name for me?”

“No name. The artists’ studios have phones and this is one. The residents shift around a lot, I guess.”

“Do we know which studio?”

“Number four. What do you think you’re onto here?”

“A new witness, maybe.” I pull the lie from thin air effortlessly. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up. In the meantime, can you get a message to Will to meet me at the Art Center as soon as he can get away?”

“You got it.”

(sixty-one)

Minutes later, I park, leaving Cricket in the back seat, and approach the cluster of outbuildings that has been here since the late fifties. In the largest of the outbuildings, there are twelve numbered apartments that function as living quarters as well as work space for instructors and artists in residence, six above and six below, with a bowed industrial-looking staircase between.

Number 4 is blank and quiet. In the dusty window to the left of the entrance, a piece of stained glass throws blurred color onto the concrete walkway, red and blue and yellow spheres.

I knock and get no answer, then test the knob to see if the door is locked, and it is. I try to peer in the windows, but they’re filmed over with dust and spiderwebs, flyspecks.

The studio gallery where tourists come to buy hand-painted windsocks and blown-glass ashtrays isn’t open yet. No one’s around except a gardener on his knees dividing a hosta plant with a sharp spade—an older man I don’t recognize. He’s wearing overalls and a ball cap, with tufts of his silver hair poking from underneath.

I head over, pointing back behind me. “Do you know who this studio belongs to? Number four.”

“Been empty for a bit, but a new intern’s coming from Portland at the end of the month.” He rests his soil-stained gloves on his knees. “Who are you looking for?”

“The artist who left.”

His glasses are cloudy, but his eyes are sharp. His shoulders square. “His lease is expired, but all the paperwork is in the office. Why? What is it you need to know?”

I can tell I’ve awakened his suspicion. I probably look more than suspicious, actually, my hair wild, and my clothes rumpled, careless. I’m out of breath, too. But as much as I know I need to slow down and reassure him that I’m not a threat, I can’t stop thinking about getting through that door. The man who killed Shannan and then took Cameron might be just inside. His prints might be on the phone, or his name on a receipt or a business card, or a piece of art.

“Who’s your supervisor?” I ask the man, and then crouch to meet him at his level. “I need to get into that studio. Who has a key?”