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Judge Frank Facey found Mickey ‘The Chop’ Cimbelli, alleged head of the Martinelli crime family, competent to stand trial. Defense attorneys argued that Cimbelli, who is charged with four murders, as well as conspiracy, extortion, and various other crimes related to labor payoffs, is mentally unfit to stand trial…”
    In the lobby, Jane Bridger was pacing the hardwood floors and scowling at the news blaring from the old-fashioned radio. The oversize, defiantly orange sweater she wore made for an interesting contrast with her red hair and brightened the dark room with its faded furnishings.
    Spotting them, she demanded, “Have you two any idea where Tiny is? There’s a
    monsoon coming our way, and my windows are already leaking.”
    “He was headed downstairs fifteen minutes ago,” Foster said. “Maybe you missed him.”
    “Not possible. I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes trying to catch him.”
    “That’s weird,” Foster said. “He showed us Watson’s rooms and then…”
    He looked at Nick, who said, “It wasn’t my turn to watch him.”
    Jane protested, “But where could he be? You’re sure he’s not still up there?”
    “We’ve been back and forth between floors about a dozen times. We’d have seen him.”
    “He probably took off early,” Nick said.
    “He didn’t leave through the front door, then,” Jane Bridger said.
    “So he went out the back.”
    “If that’s the case, he’s going to drag his butt back again,” Jane said. “The wallpaper in my apartment is starting to peel.”
    “Maybe he’s downstairs,” Foster suggested.
    Talk about a tempest in a teapot, as Nick’s granny used to say. Foster seemed content to stand there with the Bridger dame discussing all the possible places Tiny could have The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
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    disappeared; Nick lost patience and peeled off, heading for MacQueen’s fortress. He relieved his general annoyance by pounding heavily on the scratched door, although he doubted if even those blows could be heard over the blasting TV.
    Behind him he could hear Bridger saying, “He’s a freak. I’m all for handi-capable, but there’s a limit. Remember when he tried to keep that rat in a cage in the basement? A pet rat!
    And MacQueen’s so-called dogs kept going after it? I think the rat was bigger than both dogs put together.”
    “He was talking about ghosts today,” Foster said.
    “Ghosts! I’ve heard that from him too. I think he gets it from David. Mr. Center. You know he -- Mr. Center -- claims he only moved here because the place is haunted.”
    “Haunted by who?”
    “I don’t know. Some Indian princess or a colonial milkmaid or something.”
    “A milkmaid?”
    “I don’t remember the details. The place was originally a farm or something, wasn’t it?”
    “Tiny said the ghost wore yellow socks, like the man in my bathtub.”
    “I never saw a milkmaid with yellow socks.”
    “I never saw a milkmaid.”
    MacQueen’s door opened abruptly, catching Nick off guard.
    “You again!” she accused around a cigarette. “Can’t I have a minute’s peace?”
    Nick regrouped fast. “Why didn’t you mention Tiny’s keys were stolen?”
    If he’d thought to catch her off guard, he was disappointed. “They weren’t stolen! They were lost. For a day. You know how many times that damn retard has lost his keys?” She was giving herself a home permanent, and the place reeked like sulfur -- and she, an imp from hell in that lime green pantsuit.
    “The security of every apartment in this building has been compromised. You don’t think you have a responsibility to change the locks on your tenants’ doors?”
    She screeched, “Change the locks! You know how much money that would take? More than I’ve got, unless you all want a big fat rent hike.”
    Don’t get mad, Nick warned himself. If everything goes right in L.A., you’ll be bailing in a couple of weeks anyway.
    “I’m calling a locksmith now,” he told her, “And I