I knocked against the aluminum frame.

"I'm right here." It was a woman's voice, disconcertingly close.

I cupped one hand, shading my eyes so that I could see who I was talking to through the screen door.

"Is Mr. Makowski here?"

The woman seemed to materialize on the other side, her face level with my knees.

"Hold on. I've been doing my sit-ups and I can't get to my feet yet. Lord, that hurts." She hauled herself into a kneeling position, clinging to the arm of a chair. "Makowski's off fixing the toilet in 208. What can I do you for?"

"I'm trying to get in touch with Elaine Boldt. Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"You that investigator who called from California?"

"Yes, that's me. I thought I should talk to someone down here and see if I could get a lead on her. Did she leave a forwarding address?"

"Nope. I wish I could help you out, but I don't know much more than you do. Here, come on in." She lurched to her feet and held the screen door open. "I'm Charmaine Makowski, or what's left of her. Do you exercise?"

"Well, I jog, but that's about it," I said.

"Good for you. Don't ever do sit-ups. That's my advice. I do a hundred a day and it always hurts." She was still winded, her cheeks tinted pink from the effort. She was in her late forties, wearing a bright yellow sweat suit, her belly protruding in pregnancy. She looked like a ripe Florida grapefruit.

"You got it," she said. "Another one of life's little jokes. I thought it was a tumor 'til it started to kick. Know what that is?"

She was pointing to a bump just below her waist. "That's what a belly button looks like turned inside out. It's embarrassing. Makowski and I didn't think we could have any kids. I'm almost fifty and he's sixty-five. Oh hell, what difference does it make? It's more fun than menopause, I guess. Have you talked to that woman up in 315? Her name is Pat Usher, but you probably know that. She claims Elaine let her sublet, but I doubt that."

"What's the story on that? Mrs. Boldt never talked to you about the arrangement?"

"Nope. Not a word. All I know is this Usher woman showed up a few months ago and moved in. At first nobody objected because we all just figured it was a two-week visit or something like that. People in the building can have any kind of company they want for short periods of time, but the rules say you can't sublet. Prospective buyers are screened real carefully and if we allowed sublets it would just be an invitation for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to move in here. The whole community would start to deteriorate. Anyway, after a month, Makowski went up to have a little chat with her and she claims she paid Elaine for six months and doesn't intend to move. It's driving Makowski around the bend."

"Does she have a signed lease?"

"She has a receipt showing she's paid Elaine some money, but it doesn't say for what. Makowski's had her served with an eviction notice, but she's taking her sweet time getting out. You haven't met her yet, I take it."

"I'm just on my way up. Do you know if she's in?"

"Probably. She doesn't go out much except to the pool to work on her tan. Tell her 'drop dead' from the management."

Three-fifteen was located on the third floor in the crook of the L-shaped building. Even before I rang the bell, I had the feeling that I was being inspected through the fish-eye spy hole in the middle of the door. After a moment, the door opened to the width of the burglar chain, but no face appeared.

"Pat Usher?"

"Yes."

"My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm an investigator from California. I'm trying to locate Elaine Boldt."

"What for?" Her tone was flat, guarded, no lilt at all and no graciousness.

"Her sister's been trying to get in touch with her to sign a legal document. Can you tell me where she is?"

There was a cautious silence. "Are you here to serve me papers?"

"No." I took out the photostatic copy of my license and passed it through the crack. The license disappeared smoothly, like a bank card being sucked into an instant-cash machine. After an interval, it came back.

"Just a minute. I'll see if I can find her address."

She left the door ajar, still secured by the chain. I felt a little flash of hope. Maybe I was making progress. If I could track Elaine down in another day or two, I'd feel pretty smug, which sometimes counts as much as money whatever business you're in. I waited, staring down at the welcome mat. The letter B was defined in dark bristles, surrounded by bristles in a lighter shade. Did they have enough mud in Florida to justify a mat like that? It was coarse enough to rip the bottom of your shoe off. I glanced to my left. Just off the balcony, I could see palm trees with little beaded skirts near the top. Pat Usher was back, still talking through the crack.

"I must have thrown it out. She was in Sarasota last I heard."

Already, I was tired of talking to the door and I felt a surge of irritation. "Do you mind if I come in? It's about the settlement on somebody's estate. She could pick up two or three thousand dollars if I can just get her signature.' Appeal to greed, I thought. Appeal to the secret yearning for a windfall. Sometimes I use it as a ploy when I am tracking down a deadbeat who's run out on a bill. This time it was even true, so my voice had this wonderful sincere ring to it.

"Did the manager send you up here?"

"Come on, would you quit being paranoid? I'm looking for Elaine and I want to talk to you. You're the only person so far who seems to have any idea where she is."

Silence. She was pondering this as though it were an I.Q. test and she could pad the results. I had to struggle with the urge to bite. This was the only lead I had and I didn't want to blow it.

"All right," she said reluctantly, "let me get some clothes on first."

When she finally opened the door, she was wearing a float, one of those gauzy print caftans you slip over your head when you're too lazy to put on your underpants. She had adhesive tape across her nose. Her eyes were puffy and circled with bruises that were fading from blue to green. She had a strip of clear tape under each eye and her tan had dimmed to a sallow hue that made her look like she had a mild case of hepatitis.

"I was in a car accident and broke my nose," she said. "I don't like for people to see me like this."

She moved away from the door, the caftan sailing out behind her as though there were a breeze. I followed her in, closing the door behind me. The place was done in rattan and pastels and smelled faintly of mildew. Sliding glass doors on one side of the living room opened out onto the screened-in porch, beyond which there were only lush green treetops visible and clouds piling up like a bubble bath.

She took a cigarette out of a lead crystal box on the coffee table and lit it with a matching table lighter that actually worked. She sat down on the couch, propping her bare feet up on the edge of the table. Her soles were gray.

"Sit down if you want."

Her eyes were an eerie, electric green, tinted by contact lenses I had to guess. Her hair was a tawny shade, with a luster I've never been able to coax out of mine. She stared at me with interest now, her manner fairly amused. "Whose estate is it?"

She had this way of asking certain questions with no tilt at the end, soliciting information by making flat statements that I was supposed to respond to. Odd. It made me wary somehow and I found myself taking care with what I said.

"A cousin, apparently. Someone in Ohio."

"Isn't it a bit radical to hire a private detective so you can hand out three thousand bucks?"

"There are other inheritors involved," I said.

"You have some kind of form you want her to sign."

"I want to talk to her first. People are worried because they haven't heard from her. I'd like to include something in my report about where she's been."