"Indeed? Please explain."

"Rude. Nasty. He called me Big Bertha." She flushed.

"Outrageous! And what is your name, my dear?"

"Jo — Ann." She hesitated. "You won't tell Mrs. Fearing about his death, will you?"

"Very compassionate of you, Jo — Ann. And now, may we see Mrs. Fearing?"

"Where is that aide?" She was about to press the intercom again, then thought better of it. "I'll take you myself. Follow me. I ought to warn you: Mrs. Fearing's pretty batty."

"Batty," Pendergast repeated. "I see."

The woman struggled up from her chair, most eager to be of help. They followed her down a long, dim linoleum corridor, assaulted by more disagreeable smells: human elimination, boiled food, vomit. Each door they passed presented its own suite of noises: mumbling, groaning, frantic loud talking, snoring.

The woman paused at an open door and knocked. "Mrs. Fearing?"

"Go away," came the feeble answer.

"Some gentlemen to see you, Mrs. Fearing!" Jo — Ann tried to muster a bright, artificial voice.

"I don't want to see anybody," came the voice from within.

"Thank you, Jo — Ann," Pendergast said in his most suave tone. "We can handle it from here. You're a treasure."

They stepped inside. The room was small, with a minimum of furniture and personal possessions. It was dominated by a hospital bed that lay in the center of the linoleum — tiled floor. Pendergast deftly slipped into a chair next to the bed.

"Go away," said the woman again, her voice weak and without conviction. She lay in the bed, her uncombed, snowy hair frizzed about her head in a halo, her once blue eyes now almost white, skin as delicate and transparent as parchment. D'Agosta could see the gleaming curve of her scalp below the straggly hairs. Dirty dishes from lunch, hours old, were parked on a hospital table with wheels.

"Hello, Gladys," Pendergast said, taking her hand. "How are you?"

"Lousy."

"May I ask you a personal question?"

"No."

Pendergast pressed the hand. "Do you remember your first teddy bear?"

The washed — out eyes stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Your first stuffed teddy. Do you remember?"

A slow, wondering nod.

"What was its name?"

A long silence. And then she spoke. "Molly."

"A nice name. What happened to Molly?"

Another long pause. "I don't know."

"Who gave you Molly?"

"Daddy. For Christmas."

D'Agosta could see a flicker of life kindling in those dull eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered where Pendergast could possibly be going with such a bizarre line of questioning.

"What a wonderful present she must have made," Pendergast said. "Tell me about Molly."

"She was made out of socks sewed together and stuffed with rags. She had a bow tie painted on her. I loved that bear. I slept with her every night. When I was with her, I was safe. Nobody could hurt me." A radiant smile broke out on the old lady's face, and a tear welled up in one eye and ran down her cheek.

Pendergast quickly offered her a Kleenex from a packet he slipped out of his pocket. She took it, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. "Molly," she repeated, in a faraway voice. "What I wouldn't give to hold that silly old stuffed bear again." For the first time the eyes seemed to focus on Pendergast. "Who are you?"

"A friend," said Pendergast. "Just come to chat." He rose from his chair.

"Do you have to go?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Come back. I like you. You're a fine young man."

"Thank you. I will try."

On the way out, Pendergast handed his card to Jo — Ann. "If anyone calls on Mrs. Fearing, would you be so kind as to let me know?"

"Of course!" She took the card with something close to reverence.

A moment later they were outside the entrance, in the shabby, empty parking lot, the Rolls gliding up to fetch them. Pendergast held open the door for D'Agosta. Fifteen minutes later they were on Interstate 87, winging their way back to New York City.

"Did you notice the old painting in the hall outside Mrs. Fearing's room?" Pendergast murmured. "I do believe that is an original Bierstadt, badly in need of cleaning."

D'Agosta shook his head. "Are you going to tell me what that was all about, or do you enjoy keeping me in the dark?"

With an amused gleam in his eye, Pendergast slipped a test tube out of his suitcoat. Stuffed inside was a damp tissue.

D'Agosta stared. He hadn't even seen Pendergast retrieve the used tissue. "For DNA?"

"Naturally."

"And that business about the teddy bear?"

"Everyone had a teddy bear. The point of the exercise was to get her to blow her nose."

D'Agosta was shocked. "That was low."

"On the contrary." He slipped the tube back into his pocket. "Those were tears of joy she shed. We brightened up Mrs. Fearing's day, and she in her turn did us a service."

"I hope we can get it analyzed before Steinbrenner sells the Yankees."

"Once again, we shall have to operate not only outside the box, but outside the room containing the box."

"Meaning?" But Pendergast merely smiled enigmatically.

Nora, I am very sorry!" The doorman opened the door with a flourish and took her hand, enveloping her with a smell of hair tonic and aftershave. "Everything is ready in your apartment. Locks change. Everything fix up. I have the new key. I offer my sincere condolence. Sincere."

Nora felt the cold, flat key pressed into her hand.

"If you need my help, let me know." He gazed at her with genuine sorrow in his liquid brown eyes.

Nora swallowed. "Thank you, Enrico, for your concern." The phrase had become almost automatic.

"Anytime. Anything. You call and Enrico come."

"Thank you." She headed toward the elevator; hesitated; started forward again. She had to do this without thinking too much about it.

The elevator doors clunked shut and the machine ascended smoothly to the sixth floor. When they opened, Nora didn't move. Then, just as they began to close again, she stepped quickly out into the hall.

Everything was quiet. A muted Beethoven string quartet issued from behind one door, muffled conversation from behind another. She took a step, then hesitated once again. Ahead, near the turn of the hall, she could see the door to their — to her — apartment. Brass numbers screwed onto it read 612.

She walked slowly down the hall until she faced the door. The spyhole was black, the lights off inside. The lock cylinder and plate were brand new. She opened her hand and stared at the key: shiny, freshly cut. It didn't seem real. None of this seemed real. Jamais vu — the opposite of déjà vu. It was as if she were seeing everything for the first time.

Slowly, she inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked, then she felt the door go loose in its frame. She gave it a push, and it eased open on newly oiled hinges. The apartment beyond was dark. She reached inside for the light switch, fumbled for it, couldn't find it.Where is it? She stepped into the darkness, still fumbling along the blank wall, her heart suddenly pounding. She was enveloped by a smell — of cleaning fluids, wood polish… and something else.