'Housekeeping,'she said, knocking. She soon realized it had come out in a mousy whisper.

    Alouder knock. 'Housekeeping.'

    Nothing.

    Nowor never.

    Shetook out her section card, swiped the lock, and stepped into Room 1208.

    Theroom was empty.

    She wasn'tsupposed to close the door, but sometimes they closed on their own and hersupervisor was well aware of this. This was one of those times. Except thatLucy closed it herself.

    Shehad lugged everything she needed into the room and had piled it on the bed. Shebreezed through her checklist. She had never worked so fast in her life.

    Thiswas crazy. What was she doing? This was all in her head. She had created afantasy here - from the moment she'd heard about the Dreamweaver it had allbeen some crazy dream. The fact that a girl had been killed in this room wasjust a sick and tragic and horrible coincidence.

    Mr.Adrian Costa had no special abilities, no special powers. The man was acharlatan, and he was lying to her. Just another long con.

    Lucyflew through the rest of her duties, clocking the room at something superhuman,like fifteen minutes. When she was finished she felt a little better. A cleanfresh room had that effect on her. Now she could leave.

    Onthe way out she saw that the bottom drawer in the dresser was slightly open.She looked at the door, then back.

    Beforeshe could stop herself she eased open the drawer. Inside were three foldeddress shirts. There was something glossy beneath them. She pushed the shirtsaside, and saw it.

    Atthe bottom of the drawer was a picture of her mother.

Chapter 55

    Byrnesat in his van. On the way to Chestnut Hill he had planned it all out: how hewould present himself, how he would talk to Christa-Marie, how he would get theinformation he needed from her. He would walk in, the veteran investigator, Mr.Cool, Master of the Universe, and walk out with what he needed.

    Hehad failed miserably.

    Hewas leaving without one shred of information. He wondered what his next movewould be. He could talk to Michael Drummond or Paul DiCarlo in the DA's office.They, in turn, would get in touch with Benjamin Curtin, and the request wouldbe made to have Christa- Marie come into the city for a formal statement.

    Byrnecould all but see the attendant circus.

    Assoon as he started the van he saw Adele Hancock crossing the wide driveway.Byrne lowered his window as she approached.

    'Shewanted you to have this.'

    AdeleHancock handed him a sealed CD. The cover photo was a picture of Christa-Marieat a cafe in Italy. Behind her was the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore.

    'Shetold me to tell you that if you want to know her, you should listen to this.'

    'Whatdo you think she means by that?'

    Hancockoffered a thin smile. 'If you have a few years to spare, I could probablyscratch the surface of that question for you.'

    Fifteenminutes later Byrne found himself on the expressway. He couldn't head back tothe city. Not yet. He had another stop to make.

    Insidehis head the urges combusted. One urge told him what he had to do, what heshould do. The other told him what he ultimately would do.

    Headingwest, he opened the CD and pushed it into the player. In moments his world wasfilled with the soaring majesty of Christa- Marie Schönburg's cello.

Chapter 56

    TommyArcher had never gotten used to the smell. Probably never would. This did notbode well for someone with a dream of one day owning his own beauty salon.

    Today'soffending odor - there were so many from which to choose in this line of work -was the cloying aftermath of the perm he had just finished doing on old Mrs.Smith. The perm smell was mostly ammonia, which, if he remembered correctlyfrom his chemistry classes, came from ammonium thioglycolate.

    Tommyjust called it skunk.

    Healways told his customers that, seeing as the perm solution was very alkaline,the best way to get rid of the smell was with an acid- based product liketomato juice. He told them to apply it to their hair, leave it on for ten totwenty minutes, then shampoo and rinse.

    Hiscustomers all thought he was some kind of genius when he explained this tothem, but it was pretty basic science. Still, he let them believe what theywanted to believe. In his twenty-six years there hadn't been too many peoplewho considered Tommy Archer a genius. Especially his father. On the other hand,considering what he had once done for his father, he had earned the man'sundying gratitude, if not his respect. Not that the man would ever show it.

    Whilegetting the perm smell out of hair was one thing, getting the smell out of thetiny shop, the sum total of six hundred square feet that made up Country Cutz(inarguably the worst salon name in the history of the business), was somethingelse.

    Eventhough the temperature was around forty-five degrees, Tommy opened the twowindows overlooking the street. Mrs. Smith had been his last customer for theday.

    Tommypopped a tape into the player behind the register and began to sweep up. Hefelt a chill cross the salon. It was getting near the holiday season, whichmeant more work, more money, but it also meant that the loneliness would beginto descend again. He was the poster boy for Seasonal Affective Disorder.

    Hewas not allowed to smoke in the shop. After the floor was swept and the sinksrinsed, with combs and brushes cleaned, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette.Dark already. The main street of the town was all but deserted. The lights fromPatsy's Diner two blocks away and the Aamco shop across the street were allthat were on.

    'Areyou still open?'

    Tommynearly jumped a foot. He turned to locate the source of the voice. There was aman standing right next to him. As in right next to him. He hadn't heardhim walk up the sidewalk.

    Theman wore a dark overcoat.

    Tommyglanced at his watch. 'Actually, we close in about five minutes.'

    Theman ran a hand over the back of his hair. 'I was hoping to get a quick trim.You see, I have a wedding reception tonight - I'm the cool uncle, the one withthe big wallet - and, while I could probably show up in a rainbow wig, I dolike to make an entrance.'

    Tommylooked again at his watch, as if the answer was going to be there. He liked theman's style, though, and the big wallet reference was clearly meant toimply some sort of huge tip. Plus, it wasn't like he had anywhere to go. Hislittle hamlet didn't exactly have a thriving gay community, or even a seedypart of town. All he had to look forward to was a bottle of cheap Orvieto andthe DVD box set of the second season of Jericho. Thank God for Netflix.

    Heglanced at the man. Nice eyes. Nice smile.

    'Justa trim?'

    'Yes,'the man said. 'And I'm willing to pay double the going rate.'

    'Thatwon't be necessary,' Tommy said. 'Besides, what would I do with all that moneyin a dump like this town?'

    Theman didn't really need too much work, but if Tommy understood anything - aboutboth himself and most of the people he had ever styled - it was that personalgrooming was just that. Personal. Everyone had a right to look exactly the wayhe or she wanted.

    'Nicelittle town you have here,' the man offered.

    Tommysnorted. 'Yeah, well, it is if you don't mind living in a place where you callthe wrong number and end up talking to that person for an hour anyway.'