"So flaming paranoia could never help him find a suspect?" "I wouldn't think so. Everyone would seem suspicious to him. I imagine his illness would only clutter up the landscape and make things more difficult."

Then why had Marvin Argus gone to such trouble to spin the lie of a gifted paranoid?

Riker rose from his chair and picked up Jo's red suitcase. At least he had a satisfactory answer to the only question that had really mattered. Unlike Agent Argus, Charles Butler would not, could not, lie to him, and he had the man's assurance that Mallory had not visited this office today, that the contents of the suitcase were unrifled and still intact. And this oversight of hers, this failure to plunder Jo's papers behind his back, had sealed his theory that Mallory was playing him.

Chapter 6

SO MUCH FOR THE WORLD-CLASS SECURITY FEATURES of his new address. When Riker unlocked the door to his apartment, he knew immediately that there had been a break-in. His laundry was no longer scattered about the room, but neatly gathered into a wicker basket. His other clue was the small, wiry woman cleaning his windowpanes.

"What're you doing?"

"As any fool can see," said Mrs. Ortega, "I'm robbin' you blind." She turned around to glare at him with dark Spanish eyes that silently asked if he had any more stupid questions. She also managed to convey that she was a woman on a mission, and he was the intruder here.

"Did Charles let you in? Or was it Mallory?"

"I got the super to open the door," said Mrs. Ortega. "I told him I was your cleaning lady." She looked down at her apron lined with pockets of plastic bottles, rags, brushes and other tools of the trade. "Great disguise, huh?"

She dropped a wet rag on the windowsill and walked over to the wicker basket. "Riker, there's something I just gotta know. I think I've figured out your system, but tell me if I'm wrong. You throw your socks into a different corner every night so you can rotate dirty laundry instead of washing it. Have I got that right?" She eyed the red suitcase he carried. "And now you're running away from home. I understand." The wave of her hand included the entire front room, its litter and streaks of – whatever that was on the walls. "Overwhelming, isn't it, Riker? Easier to pack up and leave." He set the suitcase down by the door. "Okay, no more cleaning. Not today." He wanted to read all of Johanna's papers, and that left him no time to deal with Mrs. Ortega. Well, not much time. "I got cold beer in the fridge. Want one?"

"Don't mind if I do." She followed him into the kitchen, where his unopened mail covered most of the floor tiles. She swept a slew of envelopes from the seat of a chair and sat down at the table. "Maybe I should just ream this place out with a blowtorch and start over from scratch." She accepted a beer from his hand, stared at it with grave suspicion, then wiped the top of the can with a clean rag before opening it. "Well, this room's not so bad," he said.

"Oh, yeah?" With the toe of one shoe, she nudged an open pizza carton on the floor. The remaining slice had grown enough mold to qualify as a houseplant. "You know why you don't have cockroaches, Riker? Those genius bugs, they know it's not safe to eat here."

"So you noticed I'm probably not the type to hire a cleaning lady. Now why are you doing this to me?"

"I got a philosophy," she said. "I'm gonna write a book – Zen and the Art of a Clean House – that's my title. You put a house in order, and you put your life in order. All this stuff is weighing you down, Riker. You might as well drag it around on your back, the dirt, the mess, the busted coffeemaker that probably hasn't worked in twenty years. But that ain't the worst of it."

He followed the point of her finger, looking through the doorway to the room beyond, where dust balls, having acquired tenure, roamed free and fearless across the open floor. One windowpane she had cleaned; all the rest were fogged with a yellow grime of nicotine. And a layer of dust colored everything else in gray.

That's what the inside of your head looks like," she said. "Scary, huh?" This tough little woman had a bad attitude, a penchant for heavy sarcasm, and she had touched him in all the soft places of the heart. He understood that she wanted to fix him, to make him better by cleaning him up. But Mrs. O. was not so talented. She could not scour away the image of a skinny psychotic teenager sitting upon his blood-soaked chest, pressing the muzzle of a gun to an eyeball, then pulling the trigger only to discover that he had spent all his bullets on Riker's prone body. Even now, with every loud noise he ceased to breathe, and he relived his dying.

"What's all this crap?" Mrs. Ortega leaned down to sort through the pile of mail, passing over advertisements and bills to examine the letters from the city of New York and NYPD. Selecting one, she held it up to the overhead light. "This one's got a check in it. I can tell. It's a blackout envelope. That's so you can't see what's inside."

Riker shook his head. "You're wrong. My paychecks were direct deposit." And then one day, the deposits had ceased, and he had never even picked up a phone to ask why.

She slapped a worn five-dollar bill on the table. "I say it's a check. I'm never wrong."

He laid five singles alongside her money. "Okay, you're on."

Mrs. Ortega slashed open the envelope, then waved a slip of paper in his face. "It's a disability check from the city." Now she looked through the rest of the mail at her feet. "And here's another one – and another one. Jesus, you're rich."

"This is a mistake." Riker shook his head as she emptied the envelopes one by one and lined up the checks on the table. "The city screwed up. These have to go back."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not disabled."

"Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?"

When Mrs. Ortega had pulled her rolling cart of cleaning supplies out onto the sidewalk, she heard the rattle of money in a beggar's ratty paper cup. She had passed by this bum half an hour ago on her way to Riker's apartment. And now she could tell by the sound of coins that his proceeds had been slim, and that alone was enough to arouse her curiosity. Considering the locals, all damn liberal idiots in her opinion, this youngster would have to work at driving off donations.

She might despise panhandling on principle, but she was even less tolerant of incompetence. Since Riker had sent her away before she could make inroads on his mess, Mrs. Ortega guessed she had a little time left over for charity work.

A man from the neighborhood stopped to give the beggar money, then had a change of heart and moved on. And now the cleaning woman knew how to fix the young man in the dark glasses and the red wig.

"Still here?" Her eyes were on the paper cup, and she counted up the paltry sum of two nickels and four pennies. "It ain't goin' so good, is it, kid? Well, I'm not surprised." She walked around him, taking his measure. "I'll tell you what you're doin wrong. When that guy was gonna give you a dollar, you smiled. You looked at that bill and smiled. That's why he got pissed off and stuck it back in his pocket. In the future, try to remember this." Mrs. Ortega tapped the cardboard sign hung round the beggar's neck to label his affliction, his need for alms. She raised her voice, as if he might also be hard of hearing. "You're supposed to be blind, you moronl" He cringed and pressed back against the wall, then raised his white cane, as if to ward off a blow, and that puzzled Mrs. Ortega. This conversation had been conducted on the decibel level of a standard New York street confrontation, and she had not even threatened him. Yet now he was reduced to a shivering geek show.

In a rare moment of weakness – call it mercy – she paid him a compliment. "That white cane is a good prop. Yeah, that's a keeper."