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sight. Which meant they were at the very back, behind all those clothes.
    I cussed, pocketed the key, and began plotting strategy. I’d have to move at least one of the shoe racks outside to have room to walk. Each housed a dozen pairs and were awkward to handle, but I managed to wrestle the middle rack into the corridor. That freed enough space for me to reach the pull chain for the light. Big wow. If the bulb in the corridor was a twenty-five watt, the ones in each cubicle had to be fifteens. My Maglite would serve for more than moral support.
    And any illusion I had about simply squeezing between clothes to get to the rear rapidly bit the dust. I slithered between some rather staid suits to be confronted with a row of full-length, see-through wardrobe bags so stuffed that I couldn’t wiggle between them. I wedged one arm past a pair of them and found yet another row of the things. Janeece had managed to fill every inch.
    Lifting the wardrobe bags off the rails was out of the question; they were heavy and unwieldly. I’d have to go under them. It was just as well I was still in jeans.
    Maglite ablaze, I lowered my backside to the cold concrete floor, rolled under the two rows of wardrobe bags and bang into a single row of cartons, all labeled in Janeece’s florid printing. Behind them lining the rear wall were my boxes, folded flat, as pristine as the day I’d lugged them home from the moving company. At least three of her cartons would have to come out so I could crawl in far enough to get a hand on mine.
    The first two of hers were no trouble; I slid them forward easily. I hooked a hand around the third and pulled. It not only came out readily, it also came apart. The tape holding the seams of one end disintegrated. The side bulged, bowed, then burst open in spite of the top on it. The contents, old newspaper articles, photographs, and letters, spilled onto the floor.
    I swore again, nudged the pile back in, and turned the carton so that the wounded end butted up against one of the others I’d moved. With enough space to maneuver, I had my boxes free in no time, one of which I’d have to sacrifice to replace Janeece’s. Taping hers would be a waste of time. She’d filled it too full to begin with; the other sides bulged dangerously as well.
    I carried my load to 503. The apartment was still empty. I propped the flats against the end of the futon and went in search of tape. I had just found it on the shelf in the hall closet when I heard the click-click of a key. I peered around the corner, and Janeece burst through the door, Neva behind her.
    â€œSee? See?” Neva said. “There she is. Told ya she was here.”
    Janeece gawked at me, then slammed the door behind her, almost hitting Neva, who’d stepped in, clearly intending to find out why my roomie was so agitated.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! Why didn’t you call me?”
    She towered above me, her French roll fraying around the edges, the tail of her chartreuse silk blouse coming loose from the waist of her short black skirt. This on a woman who always looked as if she was ready for a shoot with a Vogue photographer meant she was in a state.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you’ve been trying to reach me? I’ve been here since—when, Neva? A little after four?”
    â€œThereabouts.” Neva moved to the futon and perched on an arm. I winced, but it held. The fact that Janeece didn’t even blink was testament to how upset she was.
    â€œFour?” Janeece hurled her ridiculously small Kate Spade purse onto the futon. “Then why didn’t you answer the damned phone? Didn’t you get my messages?”
    I glanced at the cordless, its light blinking steadily. “Janeece, I talked to Duck a little while ago, and there were no messages on that thing. You must have called while I was—”
    â€œYou talked