In other words, an impossible place to do surveillance, especially in a twelve-year-old Toyota with out-of-state tags. Tess sighed. Even in a nice car, it was difficult to keep vigil in a residential area. Rich people were quick to call the cops at the sight of anything out of the ordinary. She would have to think of some other way to watch the Sternes' house for evidence of Emmie.

Not that she was particularly confident she would find her at the Sternes'. It was just the only place she could think of to look. Because when you really were in big trouble-big-time, get-a-lawyer, warm-up-the-electric-chair type trouble-the past would be forgiven, family feuds forgotten.

Crow's in that kind of trouble, some second-guessing voice in her head taunted her, and he's still keeping his family at arm's length. But perhaps this was the proof that Crow didn't grasp just how much trouble he was in.

Mrs. Nguyen had turned her attention back to the television. Esskay appeared to be watching, too, studying the small figures moving across the screen with bright eyes and pricked ears, as if they were little Spanish-speaking rabbits.

"Do you understand Spanish?" Tess asked.

"A little."

"Then why not watch the ones in English?"

"Because this way, I can make up my own story. My stories much better than theirs. See, this girl-her name is Maria-she's having problems with her husband. She thinks he's not in love with her anymore. But what she don't know is, he lost all their money, and he don't want to tell her, so he works a second job, to make the money back. He away every night, so she thinks he has a girlfriend. She cries boo-hoo-hoo." Mrs. Nguyen's fake crying sounded a lot like her imitation of Esskay's barking. "And he thinks maybe he's not the father of her baby, because she act so funny."

One of La Casita's businesswomen came in just then, dressed for success in what appeared to be a halter made out of a shower curtain. She greeted Mrs. Nguyen in Spanish, Mrs. Nguyen answered in Vietnamese as she handed over the key. Mrs. Nguyen's life was more interesting than any soap opera in any language, Tess decided. Couldn't she see that? Probably not. No one ever sees the drama of his or her own life. In our own heads, we were all normal and rational, doing things that made sense. Even Emmie Stern.

San Antonio's October days were not only hotter than Baltimore's, they seemed to last longer, too. The city must be farther west in its respective time zone, surmised Tess, ever the geography dunce of West Baltimore Middle School. Tonight, that suited her purpose. It was still light when she parked her car at a Stop ‘n' Go on the boundary of Olmos Park, and the air had cooled a little. Perfect jogging weather. Too bad she had jumped rope and done fifty push-ups that morning, but she figured fast-walking wouldn't be that taxing-depending on how long she had to do it. It was the only way she could think of to make repeated passes by the Sterne home without drawing too much attention to herself. The house sat near a long, curving road called Contour Drive, and Mrs. Nguyen had told her people often jogged there.

"Woman killed there once, in front of her baby," she had warned Tess darkly. "It's true! Chris Marrou said. Take your gun." But Tess had decided packing a.38 while exercising would draw too much attention, even in Texas.

She walked east on Olmos Drive, then north toward Hermosa. The blocks were long and irregular here, it took more time than she would have liked, and ten minutes had gone by before she made her first pass by the house. In a neighborhood of big, beautiful houses, the Sterne home was perhaps the most impressive, a stone mansion with the kind of green lawn that only chemicals and a full-time gardener could have maintained. A new wing appeared to have been added fairly recently-the attached garage, connected to the house by an enclosed breezeway, was made of slightly different materials, although the addition blended in nicely. It also was constructed in such a way that one could come and go without being seen, Tess noticed. Emmie's little Nissan could be parked in there right now.

She had slowed down, almost stopped, as she examined the Sterne homestead. That wouldn't do. She sped up, turning onto Contour Drive.

She wondered if the police were ahead of her here, too, as they had been with Al Rojas and Marianna. The police wouldn't need to pretend to fast-walk through the neighborhood, they could walk straight up to the door, ring the bell and demand a search if they had any reason to believe that Emmie was there. If she was, wouldn't her uncle hand her over? After all, he was Mr. Good Citizen, so beloved that he was going to have his own parade. Emmie could run to him, but she probably couldn't count on hiding with him.

Unless he was willing to keep her under wraps until he had his big day. Maybe Gus Sterne didn't want to ride down Broadway in his Lincoln Continental with people whispering about the latest Sterne scandal. He wouldn't obstruct justice, but he might slow it down a little.

Tess was so caught up in her thoughts that she overshot the block where she needed to turn and circle back toward Hermosa. Now she was confused. This was no standard, rectangular grid, as she recalled from the map. Instead of doubling back, she continued on to the next street, Stanford-there was no discernible pattern to the names here-and headed up a street called El Prado, still lost enough in thought that she didn't immediately register the silver Lincoln.

The car was ahead of her and, of course, moving much faster. But there couldn't be two perfectly maintained silver Lincolns in the same neighborhood, not with a vanity license plate that read: BBQKNG. She kept her pace steady until it turned onto Hermosa, then decided to sprint. Runners often put on a burst of speed on at the end of their workouts, she reasoned, why not a fast-walker? She didn't think she looked too suspicious-until she' stopped abruptly at the edge of the Sternes' property, where she hoped to catch the garage door going up, and a glimpse of Emmie's car beyond it.

The garage door was still down, the Lincoln left in the drive. "Dammit," she said, loud enough so a woman gardening across the street looked up at her. Tess bent over in what she hoped was a realistic-looking spasm of a pain, grabbing her leg as if it had just cramped up. With great show, she dragged herself to the curb and massaged her calf, all the time studying the Sterne house.

Was the Lincoln in the driveway because the garage was occupied? But they were rich people, they probably had many cars. Even as Tess watched, the garage door began to rise, revealing a glimpse of a Chevy Suburban and a small sports car. She didn't recognize the make, but it clearly was not Emmie's blue Nissan. The young blond man she had seen in the Lincoln convertible was coming down the drive, holding a plastic bottle of something bright green.

"Drink this," he said. It was a sports drink, a brand Tess found particularly vile.

"Thanks, but I prefer water after a run."

"You're cramping up, right? This helps."

What could she say? She took the bottle from him and forced down a swallow. Perhaps if she had been sweating, it wouldn't have been so bad. As it was, it was like drinking an over-sweet limeade with a tablespoon of salt.

"Better?" he asked.

"Mmm."

"So, are you going to keep circling our house, pretending to workout, or did you get to see what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure what you mean." She lifted her brows, trying to look as stupid as people sometimes assumed she was, what with the girlish braid and the overripe body that nature had given her to cart around. Sometimes she toyed with dying her hair blond, curious to see if people could condescend to her even more.