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and digs her big toe into the hallway’s carpet, which is dotted with cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains forming Rorschach splotches. Making our way down the hallway, which stinks like rotten potatoes, we rap on doors. Nobody answers. I leave my business cards sticking out of doorjambs with peeling pink paint. Finally, a woman answers our knock. The wail of children crying inside momentarily escapes into the hall before, upon seeing us, she slams her door.
    When I knock on Apt. 5, an elderly woman peeks out of her apartment. I hold up my identification badge hanging on a chain around my neck and identify myself as a reporter. Issued to police reporters by the California Highway Patrol, the IDs have the CHP badge next to your picture and the name of your paper. I admit it’s sometimes misleading. Every once in a while, ­people think I’m a cop even after I clearly say I’m with the newspaper.
    â€œMa’am, we’d like to ask you about Jasmine, the missing girl.”
    The woman wears a pale green housecoat, and her white hair is neatly smoothed back in a bun. Her blue eyes are bright and sharp behind rhinestone-­studded glasses. She holds a gray cat that she absentmindedly strokes as she leans over to us, whispering loudly.
    â€œAll I know is what I see when her mother locks the girl out of the apartment. She plays in the hall in her pajamas for hours. Once I heard her crying and knocking on the door. She was saying, ‘Mommy, please open the door. I promise I’ll be good.’ ”
    I exchange a look with Lopez. His camera is still in its bag. He fiddles with the knobs on the police scanner clipped to his belt and chews on his lower lip.
    â€œCould I get your name?” I ask the woman. Without her name, it’s going to be tough to convince the editors to let me use anything she says.
    â€œI’m on a fixed income here. I don’t want any trouble. I thought I should say something to somebody because that poor little girl didn’t do anything to anybody.”
    â€œDoes this happen often?”
    â€œAll the time. At least a ­couple of times a week that girl is out playing in the hall.”
    â€œDid you ever notice anything else out of the ordinary?”
    Her gaze turns away as if she is thinking, then shakes her head.
    â€œAre you sure you can’t give us your name?”
    She presses her lips tightly together and wags her head vehemently. I know better than to push anymore. I give her my card and ask her to call if she thinks of anything else or changes her mind about letting us use her name.
    We knock on the other doors, but nobody answers. Before leaving, I stop in front of Apt. 8. There’s a chance the parents are back home from the police station by now. I tap on the door and wait a few seconds. No answer. “Excuse me, I’m with the Bay Herald, ” I say to the door. “I’m trying to find out some more information about Jasmine, so we can help find her.”
    Nothing. I stand and listen. The hair on my arms starts to tingle. For some reason I get the feeling someone is there—­right on the other side of the door. I leave my card stuck in the doorjamb.
    We’re about to cross the street when a yellow taxicab slows down to let us pass. After we cross, it stays stopped. I look over, and the driver guns the motor. I get a glimpse of a pale, angular face gaping at me. For some reason, a chill travels down my arms. It’s either getting cold now that clouds have drifted over the sun, or I’ve had enough of guys I don’t know staring at me today. I pull my sweater closer as I walk to my car.
    I decide to grab lunch at the cafe near the police station before heading back to the newsroom. It’s going to be a long day, and my stomach is grumbling.
    I’m digging into a giant spicy Italian sub when a group of men walks in. Cops. Even though they’re in plain clothes, I know immediately. It’s