There's a boy's face on the carton, a black kid named Rudolfo Hawkins who was kidnapped five years ago. The picture is from when he was six years old, and it shows him wearing a white shirt and tie and smiling, like at a birthday party or some other special occasion.

It says he was kidnapped by his father in Compton, California, but could be in Scranton, Pennsylvania, or Detroit, Michigan. I used to look at the picture and wonder what happened to him. After five years he's probably okay… at least it was his father and not some pervert.

Maybe he's back in Compton with his mother.

I've thought about Mom looking for me, and can't get it straight in my head if she is.

When I was young- five, six- she used to tell me she loved me, we were some pair, just us against the fucking world. Then her drinking and doping got more intense and she paid less and less attention to me. Once Moron moved in, I became invisible.

So would she look for me?

Even if she wanted to, would she know how, not being educated?

Moron would be a problem. He'd say something like, “Fuck, the little prick split, Sharla. He didn't give a shit, fuck him- gimme those nachos.”

But even without Moron, I can't get it straight how Mom would feel. Maybe she's sad I left, maybe angry.

Or maybe she's relieved. She never planned to have me. I guess she did the best with what she had.

I know she took good care of me in the beginning, because I've seen pictures of when I was a baby that she keeps in an envelope in a drawer in the kitchen and I look healthy and happy. We both do. They're from Christmas, there's a tree full of lights and she's holding me up like some trophy, with a great big smile on her face. Like, Hey, look what I got for Christmas.

My birthday's August tenth, so that would make me four and a half months old. I have a gross, fat face with pink cheeks and no hair. Mom is pale and skinny and she's got me dressed up in a stupid blue sailor suit. She's wearing the widest smile I've ever seen her wear, so some of her happiness must have been because of me, at least at the beginning.

Because her parents died in that car crash before I was born, what else would make her smile like that?

On the back of the photos are stickers that say GOOD SHEPHERD SANCTUARY, MODESTO, CALIFORNIA. I asked her about it, and she said it was a Catholic place, and even though we're not Catholic, we lived there when I was a baby. When I tried to ask her more about it, she grabbed the pictures away and said it wasn't important.

That night she cried for a long time and I read my Jacques Cousteau book to block out the sound.

I must have made her happy back then.

Enough of this stupid stuff, time to unroll the Place Two plastic, here we go- toothbrush and Colgate gel, free samples I got out of someone's mailbox, no name on it, just RESIDENT, so it really didn't belong to anyone. Another pair of underpants, out of a garbage can behind one of the huge houses at the foot of the park, a bunch of the ketchup and mustard and mayonnaise packets taken from restaurants. My books-

Only one book. Algebra.

Where's the presidents book from the library? Got to be somewhere inside the plastic; I used three layers… no, not here. Did it fall out when I unpacked?- no… did I drop it nearby?

I get up, look.

Nothing.

I backtrack for a while.

No presidents book.

I must have dropped it in the dark.

Oh no. Shit. I was planning to give it back one day.

Now I am a thief.

Stu dropped Petra off behind the station and drove off.

Back at her desk, she called Cleveland information for a backup work number for Dr. Boehlinger at Washington University Hospital. The home number was in the book, too. Maybe folks were more trusting in Chagrin Falls.

She dialed, got a woman's recorded voice.

The time difference made it afternoon in Ohio. Was Mrs. Boehlinger out shopping? Some surprise Petra would have for her. She visualized Lisa's mother shrieking, sobbing, maybe throwing up.

She remembered Ramsey's show of grief, the nearly dry eyes. Bad actor unable to produce copious tears?

The Boehlingers' tape machine beeped. Not the time to leave a message. She hung up and tried the hospital. Dr. Boehlinger's office was closed, and a page produced no response.

Feeling no relief, only an ordeal postponed, she called the phone company and went through a couple of supervisors before finding a sympathetic voice. Lots of paperwork would be necessary for a full year's worth of Lisa's records, but the woman promised to fax over the latest bill when she found it. Petra thanked her, then she drove to Doheny Drive, ready for Lisa's maid, Patsy Whateverhernamewas.

Sunset was clogged and she took Cahuenga south to Beverly Boulevard and got a clearer sail. As she drove, she played one of her private games, composing a mental picture of the Thai maid: young, tiny, cute, barely able to speak English. Sitting in another cream-colored room, terrified of all the cops who were playing strong and silent, not telling her a thing.

The building on Doheny was ten stories tall and shaped like a boomerang. The lobby was small, four walls of gold-streaked mirror, some plants, and mock Louis XIV chairs guarded by a nervous-looking young Iranian in a blue blazer name-tagged A. RAMZISADEH, kept company by a uniform. Petra showed her badge and inspected the two closed-circuit TVs on the desk. Black-and-white long view of hallways, nothing moving, the picture shifting every few seconds.

The guard shook her hand limply. “Terrible. Poor Miss Boehlinger. It would never happen here.”

Petra clucked sympathetically. “When's the last time you saw her, sir?”

“I think yesterday- she come home from work six P.M.”

“Not today?”

“No, sorry.”

“How'd she leave without your seeing her?”

“Each floor has two elevator. One to the front, one to the back. The back lead down to garage.”

“Straight down to the garage?”

“Most people call down to have car brought around.”

“But Ms. Boehlinger didn't.”

“No, she always drive herself. Go straight to the garage.”

Petra tapped one of the TV monitors. “Does the closed-circuit scan the garage?”

“Sure, look.” Ramzisadeh indicated a slowly scanning black-and-white view of parked cars. Murky spaces, glints of grille and bumper.

“There,” he said.

“Do you keep tapes?”

“No, no tapes.”

“So there'd be no way to know exactly when Ms. Boehlinger left?”

“No, Officer.”

Petra walked to the elevator and the cop tagged along. “Big help, huh?” He pushed the button. “Up at the top. Ten-seventeen.”

The door to Lisa Ramsey's apartment was closed but unlocked, and when Petra walked in she saw the maid sitting on the edge of a couch. The physical similarity to Petra's mental image threw her so hard she almost lost her balance. Ten points on the ESP meter.

Patricia Kasempitakpong was five-one, tops, maybe a hundred pounds, with a pretty heart-shaped face under a thick mop of long, layered ebony hair. She wore a beige cotton knit top, blue jeans, and black flats. The sofa was as overstuffed as those in Cart Ramsey's house. But not cream- Petra's prophecy-fest ended there.

Lisa Ramsey's apartment was a study in color. Red and blue velvet couches with tasseled skirts, parquet floors stained black, a zebra-skin rug thrown across the wood. A real zebra rug; the animal's head pointed toward a black glass vase filled with yellow daffodils.

From what Petra could see, the apartment was small, the kitchen just a cubby of white lacquered wood and gray tile counters. The ceilings were low and flat. Basically the place was just another L.A. box. But the tenth-floor-corner location and sliding glass doors gave it fantastic views of the west side, all the way to the ocean. Beyond the door was a skimpy balcony. No furniture; no potted palms. A cigar of smog floated above the horizon.