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gently. “Of course not.”
    She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her bathrobe.
    â€œDid you notice anything unusual on her … last night?”
    She shook her head, sniffled.
    I said, “No one coming or going?”
    â€œNo.” Her eyes glistened. “I … I’m sorry.”
    She closed the door.
    I tried a few more doors, and when no one answered, I went back to Sherry’s apartment, No. 9. Gotta get in before the parents take her stuff.
    I grabbed the door handle and turned. It rattled in place. I squatted down and studied the lock. Pin and tumbler cylinder. The easiest to pick. Thank you, Mr. Cheapo Builder.
    When I was a kid, I read that Houdini worked for a locksmith so he could learn the inner workings of handcuffs, padlocks, and safes. The summer I turned sixteen, I wangled a job at Locks-a-Million, a dumpy little place on Riverside Drive. I saw maybe five customers in eight weeks, but I learned a helluva lot about locks, including how to pick them. I also acquired the lockpick set that now resided in my pocket, even though keeping it without a locksmith license was on the shady side of the law.
    I looked both ways down the hall, then pulled the tools out of my pocket. I took the tension wrench, which looked like a miniature hockey stick, stuck it in the bottom of the keyhole, and turned it slightly to keep tension on the pins. Then I took the pick, a metal instrument with a hook on the end that looked like a dentist’s pick, and inserted it all the way into the keyhole. I maneuvered the pick until I could feel it engage the first pin; then I pushed until it lined up with the shear line. Keeping the tension on the cylinder, I carefully moved the pick forward to the next pin and fiddled with it until I felt the pin line up.
    A bead of sweat ran down my forehead, then veered into my eye. Ahh! That stings. If I wipe it, I’ll lose the two pins I already picked. Ow! I blinked rapidly.
    I looked down the hall. Still clear.
    I got another pin lined up.
    Then the next. Almost there …
    My cell phone rang. Shit. I can’t have someone come out to look for whatever is ringing.
    I let go of the pins, pulled out the picks, and answered the damn thing. “What?”
    Hannah said, “Did I not tell you to be back at two fifteen sharp?”
    I looked at my watch. Two twenty. Ooops. “I’m really sorry.”
    Hannah said, “Get back here. Now. Otherwise, you have no job and no lawyer.”
    She hung up.
    I looked at Sherry’s door, looked at the cell phone.
    I stuck the lockpick tools in my pocket and went out the building’s back door, so I wouldn’t pass the manager’s apartment.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    Â 
    When I got back to the office, Hannah set down her pen. “Why were you late getting back from lunch? That is unacceptable.”
    I smiled sheepishly. “It took a little longer than I thought to, you know, do that thing you don’t want to know about.”
    She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “I don’t suppose I should ask if you learned anything?”
    I told her about the manager and the neighbor, then said, “I’ll be having lunch again tomorrow out of the office. Stay tuned for further developments.”
    â€œWhat you do on your own time is your business. Just remember. You have a lunch hour. ”
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    Hannah opened her desk drawer, took something out, walked over to me. She handed me a business card that read Daniel Labs.
    Hannah said, “I’ve asked the cops for a split of the DNA from the crime scene so we can have it analyzed by our own expert. You can leave early to pick it up from the downtown police department at this address.” She handed me a piece of paper. “You’ll need the case number written at the bottom. Then take the DNA sample to the address on the business card. I phoned ahead and made all the arrangements at both