"Uh-huh." Gullet skewered the landlord with a look.

Parrot ran a hand across the top of his head. Not a hair budged. The stuff was more glazed than a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Seconds passed. A full minute. Somewhere out of sight, a faucet dripped.

Parrot repeated the hair thing. Folded his arms. Dropped them. The sheriff's eyes remained glued to Parrot's face.

Finally, Gullet broke the silence. "You don't mind if I take Mr. Cruikshank's things along for safekeeping, now do you, sir?"

"Don't you need a warrant or some kinda official paper?"

Not a muscle fiber flickered in Gullet's face.

Parrot's hands flew up. "OK. OK. No problem, Sheriff. I was just trying to be legal. You know. Tenants' rights and all."

There were eight boxes. I took the file carton. Pete and Gullet started with two boxes each. While the men made a second trip to the basement, I phoned Emma from the Explorer. Though she sounded better, her voice was still weak.

I reported that we were heading to the sheriff's office. Emma thanked me, and asked that I keep her informed.

Twenty minutes after leaving Magnolia Manor, Pete and I turned behind Gullet into the lot at the Charleston County Sheriff's Office, a low-rise brick and stucco affair on Pinehaven Drive in North Charleston. Two trips relocated the boxes to a small conference room.

While Gullet called the Charleston City Police, Pete and I began with Cruikshank's belongings. Pete took the Flynn file. I started with the boxes.

The first yielded bathroom towels and toiletries. Toothpaste. Plastic razors. Shaving cream. Shampoo. Foot powder.

The second contained kitchenware. Plastic cups and dishes. A few glasses. Cheap utensils.

Box three held the larder. Frosted Flakes. Froot Loops. Dried spaghetti and macaroni dinners. Cans of Campbell 's soup, baked beans, Beenie Weenies.

"The guy wasn't into gourmet cooking," I said, folding in and overlapping box flaps.

Focused on the file, Pete gave a noncommittal grunt.

Box four contained an alarm clock, bed linens, and blankets.

Box five was stuffed with pillows.

Box six held clothing.

"Finding anything?" Pete asked, his attention on notes he was scribbling.

"A lot of bad shirts."

"Yeah?" Pete wasn't listening.

"The guy liked brown."

"Mm." Pete wrote something, scratched it out.

"And Dale Evans swimsuits. Those are tough to get these days."

"Mm."

"And garter belts."

Pete's head came up. "What?"

I displayed a brown work shirt.

"You're a laugh riot, sugar buns."

"Are you learning anything useful?" I asked.

"He used some sort of shorthand system."

Crossing the room, I glanced at one of Cruikshank's handwritten pages. The notes were composed of combinations of numbers, letters, and short phrases.

2/20

LM

Cl-9-6

Ho-6-2

AB Cl-8-4

CD Cl-9-4

mp no

No F

23 i/o

2/21

LM

CI 2-4

Ok stops

Ho 7-2

AB Cl-8-5

CD C1-8-1

???

No F

31 i/o

2/22

LM

No CI

???

AB Cl-8-4

CD Cl-12-4

No F

CI 9-6

28 i/27 o

si/so rec! photos

"Probably a date," I said, pointing to the first line of each entry. "February twentieth, February twenty-first, and so on."

"Rejewski's got nothing on you, babe." Pete smiled up at me.

I waited.

"Enigma?"

I shook my head.

"During World War Two the Germans used an electromechanical rotor-based cipher system known as Enigma. Rejewski cracked the code using theoretical mathematics."

"You're on your own, Latvian Savant." I returned to the boxes.

And made my discovery in the second to last.

The contents of box seven suggested a desk or workstation. Packets of paper. Envelopes. Blank notepads. Pens. Scissors. Tape. Staple gun. Paper clips, rubber bands, staples.

A cylinder of CDs.

Removing the outer casing, I slid the discs free from the center spool. Six. I checked each label.

Five blank. One with writing.

I felt a buzz of adrenaline.

Written in black marker was the name Flynn, Helene.

The buzz ebbed slightly. Why? Disappointment? What did I think the label would say? "Unmarked grave on Dewees Island "?

"Pete."

"Mm."

"Pete!"

Pete's head snapped up.

I held out the disc.

Pete's brows shot toward his hairline. He was about to speak when Gullet appeared. I showed him the CD.

"Do you have a computer we can use to view this?"

"Follow me."

Leading us to his office, Gullet took a leather chair behind a desk just a few inches smaller than a basketball court. After typing some commands, he held out a hand. I gave him the disc and he entered more keystrokes.

The computer hummed as it sniffed out Cruikshank's CD. Gullet hit a few more keys, then gestured that we should move around behind him.

Pete and I circled the desk and peered over Gullet's shoulders. The screen was covered with tiny squares: JPEG files.

Gullet double-clicked the first square and an image filled the screen.

The scene showed a two-story brick building with a center door and picture windows to either side. Neither the door nor the window glass had lettering or a symbol of any kind. There were no street signs or address plaques with which to pinpoint the building's location. Any view of its interior was blocked by closed Venetian blinds.

"Minimal depth of field," I said. "Pretty grainy. Must have been taken from a distance with a zoom lens."

"Good eye," Pete said.

"Recognize the place?" I asked Gullet.

"It's not Rainbow Row, that's for sure. But otherwise, it could be anywhere."

The next several images showed the same structure from differing vantage points. None included a neighboring building or identifiable landmark.

"Go to that one," I said, indicating an image with a man exiting the building.

Gullet double-clicked the file.

The man was of average height but robust build. He had dark hair, and wore a belted raincoat and muffler. He was not looking at or acknowledging the camera.

The next image showed another man making his exit. He, too, had dark hair, but was taller and more muscular than the first, probably younger. This man wore jeans and a windbreaker. Like the first, he did not look into the lens.

In the next photo was a woman. Black. Blond hair. Big. Very big.

The disc held a total of forty-two images. Except for the first few, each showed someone entering or leaving the brick building. A kid with one arm in a sling. An old man in a Tilly hat. A woman with an infant strapped to her chest.

"Change the view," I suggested, pointing to an icon on the toolbar.

Gullet clicked on the arrow to the right of the tiny blue screen, hesitated.

"Try the detail view," I instructed, trying not to sound overly bossy.

Gullet double-clicked the last option, and the screen changed to columns of print. The fourth column provided the date and time of exposure for each JPEG file.

Pete stated the obvious: "The pictures were all taken on March fourth, between eight A.M. and four P.M."

"Hotline to Rejewski?" I asked under my breath.

The Latvian Savant ignored my jibe.

Gullet returned to thumbnail view and opened the first image. "So Cruikshank was still alive on March fourth." Monotone. "And he was surveilling this place."

"Or someone else was, and that someone gave Cruikshank the disc."

"But in the end, it doesn't much matter. The man killed himself." Gullet sent a questioning look over one shoulder. "This is a suicide, now, isn't it, ma'am?"

"Manner of death could be" – I searched for a word – "complicated."

Gullet swiveled to face me full on. Pete rested one haunch on the credenza. I had the floor.