'Maybe if I described him.'

'Honey' – the woman raised a chubby hand – 'before you get started, I'm just a temp. The regular gal got sick. Appendix or something. I don't know any Joseph Martin.'

'But he told his employer that this is where he lives.'

The woman chortled. 'Sure. Maybe he sneaks in at night and sets up a cot. Come on, I told you this is a mail service. What this Martin guy probably meant was this is where he wanted his check sent.'

Tess's pulse quickened. 'If he's one of your customers…'

'Maybe yes. Maybe no. I just started this morning. No one named Joseph Martin came in.'

'But if he is a customer, could you find out if he picked up his mail on Saturday or Monday?'

The woman squinted. 'Nope.'

'Why not?'

'Because that information's confidential, honey. When I started this morning, the guy who hired me made sure I got two points. First, I have to get ID from customers before I let them unlock their box. And second, I'm not allowed to give out information about the clients. There's too many process servers.' The woman eyed Tess with suspicion.

'I'm not a process server.'

'So you say.'

'Look, I'm just worried about my friend. He's been missing since Friday, and…'

'You say. Me? I have to protect my buns. If this gal I replaced gets sick enough to quit or die or something, maybe I can make this a permanent job. So why not get lost, huh? For all I know, you work for my boss and he sent you here to check out if I'm doing what he told me. So look for your friend somewhere else.'

In a taxi on the way back to work, Tess trembled, frustrated. She tried to assure herself that she'd done her best. If Joseph decided to quit his job and drop out of sight, that wasn't her concern, she told herself.

But despite her insistence, she couldn't ignore the queasy churning in her stomach. Suppose Joseph's disappearance had something to do with her.

Don't kid yourself, she thought. Nobody quits his job just to escape a woman who was too insistent about starting a relationship.

Anyway, Joseph didn't quit his job. The receptionist at Truth Video said he never called in to explain why he wouldn't be at work.

So what? That doesn't prove a thing. Lots of people quit their job without calling in to say they've quit. They just never show up again.

But Joseph didn't seem that irresponsible, Tess thought.

Sure, just like he didn't seem the type to stand you up? Stop being naive. You met him only three times. You really don't know anything about him. You admitted – in fact you told him – he's the strangest man you ever met. Even the receptionist at Truth Video called him strange. And maybe that's why you're attracted to him.

Tess bit her lip. Admit something else. You're concerned because you think something might have happened to him. For all you know, he's sick at home, too weak to phone for help. That explanation would certainly soothe your wounded pride.

Tess sagged in the back seat of the taxi.

What's wrong with me? Do I actually hope he's too sick to make a phone call?

On the taxi's radio, an announcer gave a tense update about the toxic-gas disaster in Tennessee. Three hundred dead. Eight hundred critically injured. Fields littered with thousands of dead animals and birds. Already the forests and crops were turning brown from the caustic effects of the poisonous cloud's searing nitrogen. The Environmental Protection Agency, among many other government agencies, had rushed investigators to the nightmarish scene with orders to search for the cause of the train's derailment. Their conclusions so far – according to an unnamed but highly placed informant – indicated that budget cuts at the financially troubled Tennessee railway had resulted in understaffed maintenance crews. The railway's owner could not be reached for comment, although rumors suggested that his recent divorce -costly and caused by an affair with one of his secretaries – had distracted him from crucial business decisions. As well, the foreman of the maintenance crew was reputed to have a cocaine addiction.

Jesus, Tess thought. While I'm worrying about a possibly sick man who stood me up, the planet gets worse.

A gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

'What?' Tess straightened. 'I'm sorry. I didn't…'

'Lady.' The taxi driver scowled. 'I told you we're here. You owe me four bucks.'

Surprised to discover that she'd been gone from the office for almost two hours, Tess tried to concentrate on the revisions she'd made in her article, but as she jotted notes for a possibly stronger last paragraph, she found herself staring at her gold Cross pen. She remembered the day her father had given it to her and how dropping it had been the catalyst that brought Joseph and her together.

Abruptly she stood, left her office, proceeded along a row of other offices, and stopped at the end of the corridor, at the open door of the final office. With equal suddenness, she felt her determination wither. Because what she saw was Walter Trask, the fiftyish, portly, avuncular editor of Earth Mother Magazine, hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples and shaking his head at what looked like financial statements.

Tess turned to leave.

But Trask must have felt her presence. Shifting his worried gaze toward the open door, he changed expressions and smiled. 'Hey, kid, how are you?'

Tess didn't answer.

'Come on, what's the matter?' Trask leaned back and raised his hands. 'You're always so cheery. It can't be that bad. Get in here. Sit. Stretch your legs. Talk to me.'

Tess frowned and entered.

'What is it?' Trask raised his eyebrows. Trouble with your article?'

'Trouble? Yes.' She sank toward a chair. 'But not with the article.'

'Which means it might be…?' Trask raised his eyebrows higher.

'Personal.' Tess felt a greater hesitation. 'This is embarrassing. Maybe I shouldn't have…'

'Nonsense. That's why my door is always open. Personal problems always result in professional problems. When my staffs unhappy, the magazine suffers. Talk to me, Tess. You know I'm fond of you. Think of me as a confessor. And I hope I don't need to add – anything said in this room, believe me, goes no farther.'

Tess tried not to fidget. Given her late father's background, she knew she ought to be more sophisticated about certain matters. 'What I wanted to ask… You know these companies that hold mail for people…?'

Trask narrowed his gaze, emphasizing the furrows around his eyes. 'Hold mail for people?'

'Sort of like post-office boxes, except they're not in a post office.'

'Ah, yes, now I… Mail services. Sure,' Trask said. 'What about them?'

Tess's stomach hardened. 'Who uses them? Why?'

Trask leaned forward, considered her, then ordered his thoughts. 'That all depends. Quick-buck mail-order outfits for one. The kind that advertise in the back of supermarket tabloids and sex magazines. You want a genuine World War Two Nazi bayonet or an inflatable, life-sized, anatomically correct female doll? What you do is send your check to such-and-such an address. The creep who placed the ad picks up his mail at one of those services, lets the scam last three or four months until he figures his customers are impatient enough to call the police, and then he skips town with all the cash. Of course, there were never any bayonets or inflatable dolls.'

'But…' Tess gripped her thighs. 'Why make it so complicated? Why not just use an official post-office box?'

'Because' – Trask raised his shoulders – 'I know this is hard to imagine, some people who read those ads in the tabloids and magazines are smart enough to smell a scam if the company they're tempted to send the check to doesn't have a permanent-looking address. Besides, those con artists risk being charged with mail fraud. The last thing they want is to go near a post office, where a clerk might wonder about hundreds of letters addressed to vaguely suggestive names. World War Two Collectibles and Home Anatomical Education.'