Apartment 410 was at the end of the hallway. A hand-braided welcome mat lay outside the scratched and battered door. The mat was clean, spotless.

Christine knocked and held her breath to avoid the hallway’s suffocating odors. Several locks clicked inside, then the door opened just a crack. A pair of hooded and wrinkled blue eyes peered at her through thick glasses.

“Mrs. Krichek?” she asked as politely as possible while holding her breath.

“Are you that reporter?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. My name is Christine Hamilton.”

The door opened, and she waited for the woman to back out of the way with her walker.

“Any relation to Ned Hamilton, owns the Quick Mart on the corner?”

“No, I don’t think so. Hamilton is my ex-husband’s name, and he isn’t from around here.”

“I see.” The woman shuffled away.

Once inside, Christine was accosted by three large yellow and gray cats rubbing against her legs.

“I just fixed a pot of hot chocolate. Would you like some?”

She almost said yes, then saw the steaming pot on the coffee table where another large cat helped itself to several licks off the top.

“No, thank you.” She hoped her voice disguised her disgust.

Other than the cats, the apartment smelled much cleaner than the hallway. The ammonia of a hidden litter box was obvious but bearable. Colorful afghans and quilts were draped over the couch and a rocker. Green plants hung above the windows, and crocheted doilies dotted an antique buffet and secretary’s desk. Both tops were filled with black-and-white photos of servicemen, a young couple in front of an old Buick and three colored photos of a little girl at various stages of her life.

“Sit,” the old woman instructed, backing herself into the rocker. “Oh, the pain in this shoulder,” she said, rubbing the bony knob sticking up through her sweater. “Such pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Her bones did look brittle. Knobby knees stuck out from under her plain cotton housedress. Her round face twisted into a permanent scowl. Her brilliant blue eyes were magnified and distorted by the thick wire-rimmed glasses. Her white hair was twisted neatly into a bun, clasped by beautiful turquoise hair combs.

“It’s hell getting old. If it wasn’t for my cats, I think I’d call it quits.”

Christine sat and watched her navy skirt fill with cat hair. Two of the cats still circled her legs while one jumped onto the back of the couch to take a closer look.

“Rummy, get down from there,” the woman scolded, waving a bony finger at the cat. He ignored her.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Krichek. I don’t mind,” she lied. “I’d like to get right to what you saw the morning Danny Alverez disappeared. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No. Not at all. I’m glad somebody’s finally interested.”

“The sheriff’s office has never come here to question you?”

“I called them twice. In fact, just this morning before I seen your article. They hemmed and hawed like they think I’m making it up or something. So, then I called you. I don’t care what anybody says, I seen what I seen.”

“And just what did you see, Mrs. Krichek?”

“I seen that boy park his bike and get in an old blue pickup.”

“Are you sure it was the Alverez boy?”

“Seen him dozens of times. He was a good little paperboy. Brought my newspaper all the way to my door and laid it on my mat Not like the kid we have now. He steps off the elevator and tosses it down here. Sometimes it makes it. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not easy getting this walker through that doorway. I think your paper should make sure those kids do a better job.”

“I’ll let them know. Mrs. Krichek, tell me about the pickup. Could you see the driver?”

“No. It was still dark out. I stood right at that there window. Sun was barely coming up. He pulled into the parking lot so that the passenger’s side was all I could see. He must’ve said something to the boy, ”cause Danny leaned his bike against the fence, came around and got up into the pickup.“

“Danny got into the pickup? Are you sure the man didn’t grab him and pull him in?”

“No, no. It was all quite friendly-otherwise, I would have called the sheriff sooner. It wasn’t until I heard Danny was missing that I put two and two together and called.”

Christine couldn’t believe no one had checked out this woman’s story. Was she missing something? The woman was old, but her story seemed believable. She stood and went to the window the woman had pointed to. Below was a perfect view of the parking lot and the chain-link fence. Even someone with poor vision could make out the events Mrs. Krichek had described.

“What kind of pickup?”

“I know little about cars and trucks.” The woman hoisted herself back into the walker and shuffled her way over to join Christine. “It was old, royal blue with paint chipped and some rust. You know, on the bottom part. It had running boards. I remember ‘cause Danny stepped up on it to climb in. And it had wooden stockracks, homemade ones on the back. The kind farmers put on when they’re hauling something. Oh, and one of the headlights wasn’t working.”

If the woman was senile, she had a creative imagination. Christine jotted down the details. “Were you able to see any of the license plate?”

“No, my eyes aren’t that good.”

A screen door slammed below, and a little girl raced out into a backyard on the other side of the fence. She jumped onto a swing and called out to the man who followed. He had long hair and a beard and wore blue jeans with a long tunic-like shirt.

“They just moved in last month.” Mrs. Krichek nodded down at the pair as the man pushed the little girl, and she squealed with delight. “The first day I saw him, I tell you I thought I was looking down at the Lord himself. Don’t you think he looks like Jesus?”

Christine smiled and nodded.

Maggie watched Nick step carefully around the piles she had scattered all over the floor of his office. He cleared a spot and set down the steaming pizza and cold Pepsis. Then he joined her on the floor, his long legs stretching out next to her. A foot almost brushed her thigh. All day she had found herself acutely aware of his presence. She thought she was too tired to feel, but then her body surprised her every time his elbow accidentally brushed her arm or his hand grazed her thigh while he shifted the Jeep into gear.

She had removed her shoes hours ago and had sat on her feet until they fell asleep. Now she massaged them one at a time while she read the coroner’s reports on Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow, the two dead, little boys whom Jeffreys may have erroneously been convicted of killing.

The pizza smelled good despite the gruesome details she read. She glanced up to find Nick watching her rub her feet. Immediately, he looked away as though she had caught him at something. He popped open a can of Pepsi and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” This time she was actually hungry. The ham and cheese sandwich from Wanda’s had sat on a plate with only two bites removed when young Deputy Preston had finally volunteered to take it off her hands. That was hours ago. Now it was black outside the window. Phones down the hall had quieted. Staff had thinned out. Some had been sent home to rest while others were sent back out to search for a little boy who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

Nick lifted a thick slice of pizza, pulling it expertly away so he didn’t lose the cheese. He plopped it down onto a paper plate and handed it to Maggie. She could smell green peppers, Italian sausage and Romano cheese. He had done good. She bit off more than she should have, dripping cheese and sauce down her chin.

“Jesus, O’Dell. You’ve got sauce all over your face.”

She licked the side of her mouth while he watched.