I wondered if he’d anticipated the arrival of the locksmith and the rekeying of the lock. Having left the door standing open, he must have assumed she’d have the locks changed. No big deal to him. All he had to do was wait. The next time she left the house, he could employ the same technique to supply himself with a new key while she’d go on thinking she was safe. I noticed I was neatly tiptoeing past the name Ned Lowe. Ruthie’s bristling aside, I still harbored the strong belief that Pete had been operating in the usual shakedown mode with Lowe as his target.

I closed the door, turned the key, and removed it from the lock.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped and said, “Shit!”

Ruthie was standing behind me. “Sorry. You were gone so long, I came looking for you. What’s the matter with the door?”

“This is how he got in,” I said. I gave her a quick summary, watching as her expression shifted from disbelief to dismay.

“How do I know he didn’t get in again last night after the locks were changed? He might already have a copy of that key.”

“Better have the locksmith out again, and let’s hope he offers you a discount. You should have an alarm system installed.”

“I guess I’ll have to, but I’m pissed off just thinking about how much it will cost.”

“No point in getting mad when you don’t have a choice.”

“Right, and I’m angry about that, too,” she said.

“You have a company in mind?”

“My neighbor used an outfit called Security Operating Systems. He had an alarm installed last year and he’s a big fan.”

“Security Operating Systems. S.O.S. Very clever,” I said. I placed the key in the palm of her hand. “In the meantime, you might want to install a chain where he can’t get to it.”

“How did he know he could break in to begin with? What if I’d been home?”

“Come with me,” I said.

I ushered her into the kitchen with me where I pointed at the refrigerator door, which was papered with odds and ends. Under assorted magnets shaped like vegetables, there was a photograph of Pete, a dental appointment reminder card, two fliers, and a calendar on which she’d noted her work hours. “Look at this. You have your schedule posted where anyone can see it. The first time he broke in, he was taking a big risk. After that, he knew what shifts you worked, so he could come and go as he pleased.”

Ruth put a hand on my arm. “I really have to pee. If I stand here one more minute I will wet my pants.”

“Go and pee,” I said.

She left the room. I could feel my own mental processes at work, ideas tumbling over one another as though escaping from a cage. I turned back to the refrigerator door. Dead center was the junk hauler’s flier, headline hand-drawn in mock-three-dimensional letters, fashioned after the messages left under bridges by a tagging crew. I pushed aside the magnets and freed the flier, which read: