In that case – her indignation flared – the least Joseph could have done was phone and explain that he had second thoughts and didn't plan to show up. He didn't need to keep me waiting.

Phone you? Tess suddenly thought. Your number isn't listed! And even if it were, you never told him your last name! For all you know, he had a legitimate reason not to meet you, but he didn't have a way to get in touch and let you know.

Should I swallow my pride and call him?

Dummy, you don't know his last name any more than he knows yours.

Monday, self-conscious, Tess almost expected to see Joseph enter the lobby while she waited for the elevator, but this time, a coincidence didn't happen. In her office, she tried to concentrate on her article, glancing frequently from her computer toward the telephone.

Whenever it rang, she tensed, hoping it would be Joseph, disappointed when it wasn't. By eleven-thirty, frustration made her check the Yellow Pages for Truth Video's number. She picked up the phone, only to slam it down.

What's wrong with me? I'm the one who got stood up. Why should I call him! Have I lost my pride? Do I need to beg for an apology?

At two, when she went for lunch, she again wondered if she'd see him in the elevator, but the car passed Truth Video's floor without stopping. On impulse, she decided to eat at the deli across the street. No sign of Joseph.

Thinking of him, she ordered what both of them had eaten on Friday: a tomato, sprouts, and cucumber sandwich.

She didn't see him waiting back at the elevator, didn't receive a call from him in her office, and didn't cross paths with him when she left the building just after seven.

Screw him! He had his chance!

But Tuesday, when she still didn't see him and he still didn't phone, she banged down the gold Cross pen she'd been using to edit the printout of her manuscript and decided that an apology was exactly what she wanted.

In fact, she demanded it!

Not on the phone, though. No, by God. She wanted to see him squirm.

She wanted him to-

The son of a bitch had to apologize in person.

Truth Video had a narrow reception area separated from its offices by a thick glass wall and door. A secretary peered up from a desk and spoke to Tess through a slot in a window, her hand poised to press a button that would free the electronically controlled lock on the door. 'May I help you?'

Tess's determination wavered.

Don't be a fool! He'll think you're-!

Think I'm what?

Chasing him? He should be so damned lucky!

Taking a breath, Tess forced herself to look businesslike, not at all angry.

Inwardly, though, she smiled. When I see the creep, when the secretary hears what I tell him and the gossip gets around…

'By all means, yes. I'm looking for a man who works here. I don't know his last name, but his first name's Joseph.'

The receptionist nodded, although her eyes looked puzzled. There's only one Joseph who works here. You must mean Joseph Martin.'

'Martin?' Tess mentally repeated the name. 'Early thirties? Tall? Trim? Dark hair? Gray eyes?'

'Yeah, that's him, all right.'

'Well, if he hasn't gone to lunch, would you kindly tell him I'd like to speak with him?'

'Sorry.' The receptionist frowned. 'I don't know if he's having lunch, but he certainly isn't here.'

'Great. Then I'll try again later. Any idea when he'll be back?'

'Well, that's the question, isn't it?'

'I don't understand.'

'Joseph hasn't reported for work since he left the office on Friday.'

'What?'

'We haven't seen him yesterday or today,' the receptionist said. 'He didn't call in to tell us he was sick or had a family emergency or… He just never showed.'

Tess felt off-balance.

'The editing department's been frantic to meet a deadline without his help, and…'

Tess's anger no longer mattered. She pressed her fingertips against the window. 'Why didn't you phone him?'

That's another problem. If he's got a phone, he never put its number on his employment sheet.' The receptionist studied her. 'Are you a friend of his?'

'In a strange sort of…'

The receptionist shrugged. 'It figures. Joseph's strange enough. Look, if you run into him, why not give us a break and tell him to call? We can't find his notes for the project we're working on. The editing department's climbing the walls to find those notes and meet their deadline.'

'But didn't anyone go to Joseph's home?'

The receptionist strained to look patient. 'I told you we can't find his notes. But the messenger we sent over says that no one lives at the address Joseph gave us.'

'What's the address?'

'It doesn't matter,' the receptionist said. 'Believe me, it won't help.'

Tess again raised her voice. 'I asked you, what's the address?'

The receptionist tapped her pen against her chin. 'You're wasting your time, but if it means that much to you…'

'It does mean that much to me.'

'You sure must be a friend of his.' The receptionist exhaled, flipped through a Rolodex, and gave an address on Broadway.

Tess scribbled it down.

'I'm telling you, though,' the receptionist said. 'It's…'

'I know. A waste of time.'

But when Tess got out of the taxi to confront the blaring horns and noxious fumes of congested traffic on Broadway near Fiftieth Street, she began to wonder. Comparing the address on the dismal building before her to the numbers she'd written on her notepad, she understood – with belated apologies to the receptionist – why she'd been told she'd be wasting her time.

The building had a tourist-trap, overpriced-camera-and-electronics shop on the bottom floor. The second floor had a dusty window with a sign: SEXUAL EDUCATORS. The third-floor windows were all painted black. God alone knew what they hid, but Tess braced her shoulders, determined to find out. Because the address she'd been given had specified a number on the third floor.

She stepped around a drunk or more likely a junkie passed out on the sidewalk, entered a hallway that stank of urine, climbed equally foul-smelling stairs, mustered the confidence to ignore the oppressive absence of lights, and reached the gloomy third floor. The names of businesses on various doors reinforced her increasingly despondent certainty that this building was strictly commercial, that neither Joseph nor anyone else would have an apartment here.

But then why, she brooded, convinced that something was wrong, had Joseph told his employer that this was his address?

She found an open door with a number on its grimy frosted glass that matched the third-floor number on her notepad.

Inside, she studied a frizzy-haired woman with too much lipstick who sat behind a desk. The woman chewed gum while reading a paperback. On every wall, from floor to ceiling, there were eight-inch-square cubicles with closed metal hatches that had numbers and locks.

Tess haltingly approached the desk.

The woman kept reading.

'Excuse me,' Tess said.

The woman turned a page.

Tess cleared her throat. 'If you don't mind.'

The woman splayed her book on the desk and frowned upward.

'I'm looking for…' Tess shook her head. There isn't a sign on the door. What kind of business is this?'

The woman gnawed her gum. 'A mail service.'

'I don't…'

'Like a post-office box? The mailman brings it. I sort it. I put it in those slots. The customers pick it up.'

'Have you ever heard of…? I'm looking for a man named Joseph Martin.' •

'Sorry. It doesn't ring any bells.'