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on cottage cheese and vodka.
    The woman grabbed her envelopes and took off. I
    followed the signs up to the second floor. Nancy’s
    apartment was tucked into a corner dominated by a
    massive clump of dead jasmine. Winter-flowering jas-
    mine has a wonderful, elusive scent (unlike summer’s
    night-blooming jasmine, which, if you ask me, reeks
    like air freshener). But when it finishes flowering, the vines get choked with dry brown blossoms that don’t
    fall off on their own. You’ve got to whack ’em off with a pair of hedge shears. I learned that from Javier, my genius gardener.
    I knocked hopefully at Nancy’s door. No answer. I
    knocked again. Nothing. I tried to peek into the front window, but the miniblinds were shut tight. Clarissa
    was not going to be happy. But I’d done what I could
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    do. I went back down the stairs, wondering if I should leave a note with the building manager.
    It was quiet by the pool. An older man in a white
    terry cloth robe was stretched out on a lounge chair, asleep with the morning paper at his feet. A young
    woman wearing a black tank top and tartan minikilt
    was seated opposite him, polishing her toenails green.
    A heartwarming domestic scene.
    “Excuse me?”
    She looked up.
    “Do you happen to be acquainted with Nancy Olsen?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “I’m a friend of the family. Her mother is really worried about her. She hasn’t answered her phone in days.”
    “I haven’t heard it ringing.”
    “Why would you?”
    “I’m Nancy’s neighbor. Three B.”
    “Nice to meet you. So have you seen Nancy lately?”
    “I’m out a lot.” She turned to the other foot, bored.
    “Do you know what kind of car she drives? Maybe I
    could check the parking lot.”
    “What kind of car do you drive?”
    “Forget it.” I started to go.
    “That’s a very personal question.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I don’t think Nancy has a car.”
    “How does she get around, then?”
    “Maybe she takes the bus. Some of us actually do.
    Anyway, in answer to your question, I think I saw her yesterday. In fact, I’m sure of it. She was standing right over there, smoking a cigarette.” She pointed to an ashtray underneath the No Lifeguard on Duty sign.
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    “Well, great. Her mom is going to be really happy to
    hear that.”
    “Well, great.”
    “Not about the cigarette, I mean. About her being
    here.”
    “Whatever.” The girl moved on to her bitten-up fin-
    gernails. The old guy turned onto his side and started to snore.
    “I’ll be leaving, then,” I said to no one in particular.
    Right after I checked out the parking lot.
    I’d taken a wild guess that the Holly View wasn’t too big on security. Maintenance either. I made a bit of a spectacle of myself on the way out, tripping over a
    chipped piece of slate tile. After that, I sneaked back around to the alley running along the side of the building, and down into the underground garage, whose
    electronic gates were—surprise—on the fritz.
    It was dark and musty down there. The trash cans
    were overflowing. A crumpled McDonald’s bag floated
    idly toward the laundry room. I looked up. There were three or four bulbs hanging from the ceiling, all of
    which needed changing, and in the corner, by the recycling bin, a single fluorescent light that flickered off and on, off and on.
    The parking spaces were marked by apartment. I
    looked around for 4B, my high heels clicking loudly on the oil-stained concrete. Most of the spaces were
    empty. It was a Thursday. Everybody was probably
    hard at work, like I should’ve been.
    Two A drove an old but very nicely maintained Toy-
    ota Celica. Maynard would’ve approved. Six A drove a
    beat-up yellow van with a bumper sticker that read “I 40
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    Brake for Spayed and Neutered Pets.” Had to be the envelope lady. And what do you know? The girl in the tartan minikilt didn’t take the bus. She drove a black