"We're missing something entirely," said Adam. "Where did all her money come from? She was getting a steady supply of cash from somewhere. And that was after she quit her job…"

M. J. suddenly popped the car into gear. "That's our next stop. Radisson and Hobart."

"What, her old job?"

M. J. grinned at him. "Your synapses are finally catching up."

"Whatever happened to solving crimes the old-fashioned way? Letting the police do it?"

"Under normal circumstances, yeah. I'd take the lazy gal's way out and dump this mess in their laps."

"Under normal circumstances?"

"When alarm bells aren't going off in my head. But I'm hearing enough bells to give me a splitting headache. First, Maeve swears it's the city elite that's killing off junkies-meaning, the authorities. Then we hear Peggy Sue was afraid of the cops. So afraid, in fact, that she hid her kid from them, and told the babysitter Lila to play dumb. And finally, there's Esterhaus. Okay, so maybe he did steal the Zestron and have it delivered to Peggy Sue. But why? Who could've pushed him into it?"

"Someone who knew about his old connections with the mob. And could blackmail him."

M. J. nodded. "The authorities."

"Good Lord." Adam sat back, shaken by the thought. "A revolutionary method to mop up crime."

"I'm not going to jump to conclusions here. Let's just say I'm not quite ready to take this to the cops."

It was a good twenty-minute drive to the Watertown District. Along the way, they stopped at a phone booth to check the yellow pages. There was no listing for Peabody under Telemarketing. In fact, there were no ps listed at all. Directory Assistance likewise came up with a blank.

They drove on anyway, to Watertown.

It was a section of the city M. J. seldom had reason to visit. Situated at the southeast corner of Albion, it had evolved over a half century from a thriving port to a malodorous district of fish processing plants, decaying piers, and ramshackle warehouses. At least there was still evidence of economic life in the neighborhood, mostly dockside bars and army surplus outlets. In fact, standing at the intersection of Radisson and Hobart, M. J. could spot three surplus stores. Across the street, a sign hung in the window: Guns and ammo-for the sake of those you love. The Atlantic Ocean was only a block away, but the sea wind couldn't wash the smells of diesel and processed fish from the air.

The name of the company, it turned out, was Piedmont, not Peabody. They had to ask at a corner bar to find it, as the name itself appeared on none of the buildings. The company occupied a third-floor office in the Manzo Building on Hobart Street. The sign on the door said simply: Piedmont. From the room inside came the whine of a printer.

They knocked.

"Yeah, who is it?" a man called.

M. J. hesitated and then said, "We're friends of Peggy Sue Barnett."

An instant later the door opened and a man appeared, looking cross. "Where the hell has she been?" he demanded.

"Maybe we can we talk about it?" said M. J.

The man waved them inside, then shoved the door shut. It was a dismal office, if one could even call it that. Bare walls, a steel desk. In the corner sat a computer, its printer spewing out a list of names and telephone numbers. Another doorway led to an adjoining room, equally dismal.

"So what's the story, huh?" said the man. "She wanna come back to work or something? Well, you can tell her, forget it. And by the way, she still owes me."

"For what?" asked M. J.

"Two weeks' salary. I give her an advance, and she skips out."

"Excuse me, Mr…"

"Rick. Just Rick."

"Rick. I guess you haven't heard. Peggy Sue Barnett's dead."

He stared at her, looked at Adam, then back at her. "Aw, Christ. Now I'll never get the three hundred back." The phone rang. He went over to the desk, picked up the receiver, and slammed it down again. "That's what I get for being Mr. Nice Guy."

"You're not the least bit interested in how she died?" said Adam with undisguised disgust.

"Okay," Rick sighed. "How'd the bitch'die?"

"A drug overdose."

"I'm real surprised." Rick dropped into a chair and looked at them with utter disinterest. "So why're you here? She leave me something in her will?"

"Rick, my friend," said M. J., pulling up a chair. "We have to talk. I'm from the medical examiner, see, and I have to ask you some questions."

"You and what cop?"

"Take your pick. There's my buddy in Homicide, Lieutenant Beamis. Or maybe you'd like to meet the guys in Fraud. They'd probably like to meet you." She glanced around the office. "What is it you sell here, by the way? Bargain vacations?"

Rick sank, glowering, into his chair.

"We're in the right mood now, are we?" said M. J.

"I don't know nothing."

"Peggy Sue quit her job six months ago. Is that right?"

Rick grunted, a sound M. J. took to be a yes.

"Why did she quit?"

Another grunt, coupled with a sullen shrug. Communication worthy of a caveman.

"Was she mad about something?" asked Adam. "Did she give you a reason?"

Maybe it was the fact a man was now asking the questions; Rick finally decided to answer. "She didn't tell me anything. She just walked off the job. Called a few days later to say she wasn't coming back. She had something better going."

"Another job?"

"Who knows? The bitch was flaky, you know? One minute she's at her desk, working the phone. Then I get back from lunch and there's a note on the door sayin' she's outta here. No explanation, just-poof! Here I am, paying rent on two rooms, and I can't get anyone to man the other desk."

"She had her own office?" said Adam.

"That room over there." He pointed to a doorway. "Her own private space. Didn't appreciate it none."

"May we see the office?" asked Adam.

"Go ahead. Won't tell ya nothin'."

The adjoining room was like the first, but without a computer. There was a window that looked down on a grim back-alley view of broken glass, trash cans.

Adam opened and closed a desk drawer. "Not much in here," he said.

"She took it all with her," said Rick. "Even the pencils. My pencils."

"No papers, no notes." Adam pulled out the last drawer. "Nothing." He shut it.

"See?" said Rick. "I told ya there wasn't anything to look at. Just a desk and a telephone." He glanced at M. J., who was gazing down at the alley. "And a window," Rick pointed out. "I was generous. I let her have the view."

"And a lovely view it is," said M. J. dryly.

"Okay, so it's not the seaside. But it faces south and you get some sun. And Bolton's a quiet street so you don't get blasted away by traffic noise."

"Well," said Adam. "I guess there's not much more to see in here."

"That's what I said. You satisfied now?"

M. J. was still gazing out the window. In the alley below, a man appeared, lugging a trash bag. He dumped it in a can, slammed down the lid, and retreated back up the alley. Something was still bothering her. It had to do with this window, with Peggy Sue Barnett and the reason she'd left her job so abruptly six months ago.

She turned to Rick. "Did you say that was Bolton Street out there?"

"Yeah. Alley comes off it."

"What are the nearest cross streets?"

"To Bolton?" Rick shrugged. "Radisson's to the east. And west, that'd be, uh…"

"Swarthmore," said M. J. softly. It came to her like a lightning flash of memory: the name of the street. Its significance.

Bolton and Swarthmore. That's where my partner went down. Drug bust went sour, got boxed in a blind alley…

M. J. swung around to look at Adam. "My God, that's it. That has to be it!"

Adam shook his head. "What are you talking about?"