She said a quick good-bye and hung up. Clearly, she wanted to disconnect before he could change his mind. There was no chance of that, however. Vince was a man of his word. If he said he would go, he’d go. It wasn’t in his nature to second-guess his decisions.

Except for that door. That pockmarked door at the end of the dark hallway-the door he should never have opened.

Vince found the clock on the kitchen counter and pressed the speaker button. “Ten fifty-two,” the mechanical voice announced. Time for bed.

He took three steps to the right and opened a drawer that was directly beneath the microwave oven. His medication was in a foil package, third bin from the left. The doctor had prescribed Mirtazapine, thirty milligrams, in a dissolvable-tablet form, to be taken each night at bedtime. It was an antidepressant. It didn’t seem to make him any happier, but it did knock him right out.

He opened the package and placed the tablet on his tongue. The bitter lemon taste brought a sense of calm, even security. Eight hours of sleep, guaranteed. Eight glorious hours of sight.

In his dreams-even in his worst nightmares-Vincent Paulo was never blind.

A licia didn’t feel the cold night air until she switched off her cell phone.

The bar was packed and noisy, so she’d been forced to step outside and call Vince from the sidewalk. Miracle Mile was an upscale shopping boulevard, the heart of downtown Coral Gables. This time of year, it had that eclectic mix of palm trees and Christmas decorations-colored lights everywhere, storefront windows frosted with artificial snow, reindeer and candy canes suspended from lampposts. The bar at Houston’s Restaurant drew a twentysomething crowd on Thursday nights, and the waiting line wrapped all the way around the corner to the valet stand. The singles on queue seemed to eye one another with added interest. This was definitely snuggle weather. Alicia was the only person on the block without a coat. She felt like one of those Jersey girls who ended up on the evening news each year, determined to show off her new bikini and steal a suntan despite forty-degree temperatures without the wind chill.

Alicia wasn’t out on the prowl. Thursdays were her nights out with old girlfriends, a chance to break away from a shrinking social life that seemed to revolve more and more around being a cop. All the guys stepped aside and checked her out as she went back inside. She drew dirty looks from several women who assumed she was using that hot body to cut in line. It was amazing how so much of society and basic social interaction was built on eye contact. That little observation just seemed to pop into her head for no reason at all. But things rarely happened without a reason. She was thinking about Vince, and her painful awareness that he could never again cut a glance across a room was exactly what had triggered her thoughts. She was suddenly angry with herself. He would push her away for good if he knew she was feeling sorry for him.

The bar seemed even louder and more crowded as Alicia forced her way back to her friends’ table. The effects of two-for-one margaritas were beginning to wear off, and she was already regretting the impulsive telephone call to Vince. She knew better than to let alcohol do the talking for her, but somehow it had worked out fine.

Finally, she reached her table, only to find a waiter clearing away empty glasses as five women settled up the bill.

“You owe sixteen twenty-five,” said Rebecca, never looking up from her miniature calculator. Rebecca had been Alicia’s friend since college, and she was still the same. Bills were divided to the exact penny.

Alicia checked the back of her chair for her purse, but it wasn’t there. She checked the floor around them and even under the table. “Did one of you girls grab my purse by accident?”

The others shrugged and looked at one another. No, uh-uh, not me.

“Well, shit,” said Alicia. “Somebody stole my purse.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I took my phone out to call Vince, and I left my purse right here on the back of my chair.” Presently, the back of her chair was up against some guy’s butt. Their table was surrounded-practically smothered-by a standing-room-only crowd. Someone could have easily brushed by the chair and lifted her purse without Alicia’s friends taking notice.

“I’ll cover your share of the bill,” said Rebecca. “Why don’t you check with the hostess? Maybe someone turned it in.”

“All right,” said Alicia, though she knew in her heart that it was more likely in the Dumpster and that some slob who now called himself Alicia Mendoza had already purchased a sixty-inch plasma TV with her credit card. It was a sea of humanity between her and the hostess. She had to turn herself sideways and rub against two dozen strangers before reaching the stand.

“Did anyone turn in a purse?” Alicia asked.

“What’s it look like?” asked the hostess.

“Black shoulder bag. Kate Spade.”

The hostess pulled the bag from beneath the counter just as Alicia’s friend emerged from the crowd. “You found it,” said Rebecca. “Where was it?”

The hostess said, “One of our waitresses found it in the ladies’ room.”

“I didn’t leave it in the ladies’ room,” said Alicia.

“Maybe it was one of your margaritas that left it there,” said Rebecca. “Check to see if anything’s missing.”

Alicia opened the bag, but the restaurant was almost too dark to see inside her purse. She and Rebecca went outside, and the cold night air hit them immediately. The temperature was dropping by the minute, but Alicia was flushed with adrenaline as she sifted through the contents of her purse. To her relief, her wallet was still there. The credit cards were still in place, and so was all her cash.

Rebecca snatched a twenty-dollar bill and said, “For the drinks. Now I owe you three seventy-five.”

Alicia stepped away before her friend could claim ownership to anything else. She checked the side pocket and the zipper pouch inside. “My lipstick is gone.”

“Yuck,” said Rebecca. “No offense, girl, but who would steal your lipstick?”

An uneasy feeling came over her. She imagined some pervert writing her initials on his balls with Dusty Rose No. 3. Probably an overreaction on her part, but the mind went in those directions when you were a cop. “Only one person I can think of.”

“You mean that guy on the bridge who wanted to talk to you? I thought he was in jail.”

“The station called right after I left work to tell me he was back on the street. Somehow he made bail.”

“If a homeless guy came wandering into Houston’s, wouldn’t somebody notice?”

“Maybe they cleaned him up before he left jail.”

“Enough to get into the ladies’ room? That’s where they found your purse, remember?”

“That’s true.”

“But it has to be him, doesn’t it? If it’s not, then who’s the lipstick bandit?”

Alicia’s gaze shifted back toward the restaurant. With the reflections off the huge plate-glass windows, the packed crowd seemed to double in size. “I have no idea,” she said.