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and I wanted to get started on the files Hauser had given me.
    I slid the garage card into the machine and the door lifted like I had said Open Sesame. I pulled into the underground garage and followed the numbers labeling each tenant’s space until I got to 1240. It wasn’t possible. It was occupied by a yellow Mustang convertible. News of an empty parking space in this city spreads faster than a flash flood.
    I had to park about three blocks from the building, and by the time I walked the distance, carrying a bag of groceries and a suitcase, my hands were freezing because I hadn’t the foresight to put on my gloves and was too stubborn to put down my packages and dig into my pockets and get them. I decided that my first official act as temporary tenant in the building would be to call a towing company.
    I had trouble getting the key to work in the apartment door, partly because my hands were freezing and partly because I was trying to juggle all the stuff I was carrying. When the lock finally stopped fighting me, I was so relieved to be in the apartment that it didn’t immediately occur to me there was something wrong. Then, several things registered at once. An empty apartment shouldn’t have this many lights on. It shouldn’t smell like popcorn. And it should be empty.
    I won’t soon forget my first glimpse of Elaine Kluszewski. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, swaying slightly, stockinged feet firmly planted on the tile floor. Even without shoes she was tall. Her hair was reddish brown and pulled back behind her neck. She wore a dark green skirt that looked like it was part of a suit and one of those white, professional blouses with an ascot and a pin. In her left hand she held a whiskey Collins glass filled with what appeared to be only slightly diluted scotch or bourbon. In her right hand, pointed in the general direction of my chest, she held a .38 automatic. It swayed, along with Elaine, from side to side a little. I froze, gripping the groceries with one hand and my suitcase with the other.
    “Drop your luggage.” Her words were slurred and as she spoke, she closed one eye and tilted her head back, as if trying to get me into better focus.
    I let my suitcase fall and raised my hand, palm toward her, in a gesture of surrender.
    “Don’t move.” She was still swaying and her words had that clipped, overly distinct quality that characterizes someone trying very hard to appear sober. “I don’t want to kill you.” She lowered the gun so that it was aimed about a foot lower. I swallowed hard. “I am not aiming at a vital organ.”
    “Look,” I said, “there has been a misunderstanding.”
    “Don’t interrupt me.” She took three healthy swallows from her glass, teetered backward and caught herself.
    Scrunching up her eyebrows, she said, “Explain that.”
    “Pam Richards gave me the keys. I’m a friend of hers.”
    Her posture relaxed a bit, but I still felt I was being judged and found wanting. Either she was waiting for me to continue or was on the verge of passing out.
    “Are you Elaine Kluszewski?”
    She nodded.
    “Pam said you were leaving the country for a while and were looking for someone to rent the place while you were gone.” A horrible thought smacked me upside the head. I laughed tentatively. “Either that or one of us has really irritated Pam and this is her idea of getting even.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Quint McCauley.”
    Her mouth dropped.
“You’re
Quint McCauley?” I nodded, not sure whether I should dig my toe into the carpet or tell her I had identified myself incorrectly. “You’re”—she searched for the right word—“scum.” That was what I was afraid of.
    “You dumped Pammy for some twenty-year-old legal-eagle, pseudointellectual nymphomaniac.”
    I didn’t want to respond to that. It was easier to call her bluff. “Look,” I said, dropping my hand to my side. “One of three things is going to happen now. A, you’re going to shoot me.