"Why does she have fingerprints on file?"

M. J. flipped to the next page. "Because she has a police record. Shoplifting. Prostitution. Public drunkenness." M. J. glanced up at Adam. "Guess she wasn't as sweet as she looked."

"What was the cause of death?"

M. J. opened the folder and squinted at Ratchet's notes. He must have been in a rush when he wrote it; it was a typical doctor's scrawl, the is undotted, the ts uncrossed. "Subject found 3/27 at 02:35 in public restroom at Gilly's bar, off Flashner Avenue." M. J. looked up. "That's in Bellemeade. I live there." She turned to the next page. "No injuries noted… tox screens pending. Police report empty bottle of Fiorinal pills found near body. Conclusion: cardiopulmonary arrest, most likely due to barbiturate overdose. Awaiting tox screen from state lab."

"Is the report back yet?"

M. J. went to the courier box and riffled through the stack of pages. "I don't see it here. It's probably still pending." She closed the file. "This case doesn't really fit with the others. Bellemeade's a different neighborhood, with a different class of drug users. Higher priced."

"The others were all in South Lexington?"

"Within blocks of each other. Jane Doe was smack in the Projects. So was Xenia Vargas. Nicos Biagi was a little further out, on Richmond Street. Let's see, that'd make it somewhere near the old railroad tracks. But it's still the same neighborhood."

"You seem to know the area well."

"Too well." She tossed Peggy Sue Barnett's file on Ratchet's desk. "I grew up there."

He looked at her in surprise. "You?"

"Me."

"How did you…" He paused, as though not certain how to phrase the question with any delicacy.

"How did I happen to grow up there? Simple. That's where my mom lived. Right up until she died."

"So you would know the people there."

"Some of them. But the neighborhood's always changing. People who can get out, get out. It's like this giant pond. Either you float up and crawl out or you sink deeper into the mud."

"And you floated."

She shrugged. "I got lucky."

He studied her with new appreciation, as though he was really seeing her for the first time. "In your case, Novak," he said, "I think luck had nothing to do with it."

"Not like some of us," she said, looking at his tuxedo and his immaculate shirt.

He laughed. "Yes, some of us do seem to be rolling in it."

They rode back up the elevator and walked out of the building. It was chilly outside. The wind blew an empty can down the street; they could trace its progress by the tinny echoes in the darkness.

He had driven in his car, and she in hers. Now they paused beside their respective vehicles, as though reluctant to part.

He turned to her. "What I was trying to say earlier- about your knowing people in South Lexington…" He paused. She waited, feeling strangely breathless. Eager. "I was trying to ask for your help," he finished.

"My help?"

"I want to find Maeve."

So it's my help he wants , she thought. Not me in particular . She wondered why that fact should leave her feeling so disappointed. She said, "Lou Beamis is a good cop. If he can't find her-"

"That's just it. He's a cop. No one out there trusts cops. Certainly Maeve wouldn't trust him. She'd think he was out to arrest her. Or reel her in for me."

"Is that what you're trying to do?"

"I just want to know she's alive and well."

"She's an adult, Adam. She can make her own choices."

"What if her choices are insane?"

"Then she lives with them."

"You don't understand. I made a promise to her mother. I promised that Maeve would be taken care of. So far I've done a pretty deplorable job." He sighed. "At the very least, I should look for her."

"What if she doesn't want to be found?"

"Then she should tell me that, face to face. But I have to find her first. And you're the only one I know who's familiar with South Lexington."

M. J. laughed. "Yeah, I guess it's not the sort of neighborhood your dinner guests would frequent."

"I would appreciate it. I really would. Just show me the place. Put me in touch with some of the people. I'd reimburse you for your time, of course. You only have to say how much-"

"Wait a minute." She moved closer to him, her chin tilted up in astonishment. "You were going to pay me?"

"I mean, it's only appropriate-"

"Forget it. Forget it. I'm a doctor, Quantrell, okay? I'm not the butler. I'm not the cook. I'm a doctor, and I already get paid for what I do."

"So?"

"Which means I don't need a moonlighting job. When I do a favor for a friend-and I'm not necessarily putting you in the category-I do it as a friend. Gratis. Purely for warm fuzzies."

"So… you just want warm fuzzies?"

She turned away. "You don't get it."

"I do get it. You want to do it out of the kindness of your heart. You want me to feel grateful. And I do, I really do." He paused, then added softly: "I also really need your help."

M. J. wasn't philosophically opposed to helping her fellow man. And a devoted dad in search of his daughter, well, that was an appeal she could hardly refuse. But this particular dad was no charity case. And instinct told her that the sight of those blue-gray eyes, the dazzle of that smile, could prove addictive-dangerously so.

Still…

She walked over to her car and flung open the door. "Get in, Quantrell."

"Excuse me?"

"We're not taking your car, because a nice new Volvo's an invitation to a chop job. So let's go in mine."

"To South Lexington?"

"You want an intro to the place, I know some people you can talk to. People who'd know what's going on in the neighborhood."

"But-it's dark."

"Listen," she said. "You want to live dangerously or not?"

He regarded her battered Subaru. Then he shrugged. "Why not?" he said, and climbed into her car.

South Lexington was a different place at night. What by day had seemed merely drab and depressing had, by night, assumed new menace. Alleys seemed to snake away into nowhere, and in that darkness lurked all the terrible unknowns a mind could conjure.

M. J. parked beneath a streetlamp, and for a moment she studied the sidewalk, the buildings. A block away, a dozen or so teenagers had gathered on the corner. They looked harmless enough, just a bunch of kids engaged in the adolescent rites of spring.

"It looks okay," she said. "Let's go."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

They got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk, toward Building Five. The teenagers, at once alerted to intruders in their territory, turned and stared. Automatically, Adam moved close beside M. J. and tightly grasped her arm.

"Keep your cool, Quantrell," she whispered, pulling away. "Don't let 'em smell your fear."

"I was only trying to be protective," he hissed.

"Oh. I thought you were just scared."

"That, too."

The building was unlocked, so they went inside. The lobby was as she'd remembered it: dingy walls, nutmeg-colored carpet to hide the stains, half the hall lights burned out. The graffiti was a little more graphic, and less poetic than she remembered; the artwork had definitely taken a slide for the worse.

The elevator, as always, was out of commission.

"I don't think it ever worked," she muttered, noting the faded Out of Order sign. "It's four flights up. We'll have to walk."

They went up the stairs, stepping over broken toys and cigarette butts. The handrail, once smoothly burnished, was now scarred by a series of initials carved in the wood. Noises filtered out from the various apartments: crying babies, blaring TV sets and radios, a woman yelling at her kids. Floating above it all were the pure and crystalline tones of a girl singing "Amazing Grace." The sound soared like a cathedral above the ruins. As they ascended the stairs to the fourth floor, the girl's voice grew louder, until they knew it was coming from behind the very door where they stopped.