Chapter 1 – Where’s Juanita?

It was Saturday morning, a little after 10:00 a.m. Juanita Mya Diego de la Torres, District Chair of the Sierra Nevada Girl Scout council, had called me earlier in the week and asked if I could reroute some computer cables through their office spaces on the second floor. Although I don’t know much about computers I do know how to install conduit for cables and promised to take a look see. Juanita’s assistant, a plump little woman with a pageboy haircut about the color of unvarnished bamboo flooring, met me at the door.

“Juanita didn’t come in this morning, Mr. Hale,” Agnes Dixon said, “which is so unlike her.”

“Please call me Chip,” I said, for the umpteenth time since meeting her a couple years ago after bidding a small job that any senior Girl Scout should have been able to do and earn a Room Makeover badge.

Agnes, who usually didn’t have much to say, looked down at the floor, her hazelnut eyes fluttering behind Coke-bottle bottom glasses. “She should have been here by now.”

“I know,” I said. “But she isn’t. So, do you know what computer cables she wanted me to move?”

She began pacing. “I tried calling her cell but it went straight to voice.”

“Maybe she forgot to plug it in and the battery died. Have you tried her home phone?”

Agnes looked at me like I was from outer space. “She cut the cable years ago.”

I shrugged, unsure what that meant or had to do with anything. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be here shortly. Now, if you’ll just show me where she wanted those cables moved.”

“But this so isn’t like her.”

“Agnes, I’ve got other things I could be doing today.”

“Oh!” she said. “Right this way.”

Her sneakers squeaked on the vinyl tile flooring as she pivoted and led me to the elevator, something Juanita never would have done. Juanita is about five-eleven, or three inches shorter than me, with long legs and glossy, yellow-pine colored hair that bounced off her shoulders as she’d dash up the stairs. She was quite beautiful, I thought, had plenty of energy, and always wore the most interesting clothes. I wasn’t sure how old she was, but she was super-smart and I recall being immediately intimidated the first time we met as three different volunteers interrupted our meeting and she’d spoken with each in their own language: Spanish, French, and German. I later learned Juanita was fluent in seven languages and English was her third, but I’d never detected an accent when she spoke.

On the second floor, Agnes led me to a series of cubicles in the middle of the office. “Juanita would like these…” she said, pointing at the bundles of computer cables taped to the floor between cubicles, “run between the work stations in some fashion to avoid this trip hazard.”

I glanced around the office and the only way I could see to do it was from above. “They could be dropped down from the ceiling.”

“Wouldn’t that look awful?”

It was a suspended ceiling consisting of two-by-four foot acoustical ceiling tiles, and running the cables above them wouldn’t be any trick at all. “Not when I’m finished. I’ll use rigid inch-and-a-half, white PVC to bring it down. It’ll just look like part of the cubicles.”

“I don’t know. I wish Juanita were here to authorize it.”

“She’s already asked me to do it, Agnes. If she doesn’t like it I promise to return it to the way it was before and pay for the materials myself. Now, I’ve got to make a trip to Home Depot for the materials. Juanita will probably be here by the time I get back.”

“Well—”

“Why don’t you try texting her while I’m gone?”

“I already have Mr., uh, Chip, believe me, I already have.”

I took the stairs thinking how Juanita turned out to be so much more warm, and kind, and considerate than I ever would have imagined which is probably why I’ve been volunteering my handyman services at the Girl Scout’s business offices ever since being sent to repair a broken doorknob that took all of twenty minutes. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to bill them the minimum one-hour labor charge of $75.00.

Jake Du Monde, my boss and owner of Handyman Inc., has a strict rule about his craftsmen working for customers on the side and off the books. He flat out doesn’t allow it and says that since it was his original job order that brought the customer to our attention, it would be unethical for any of us to profit from the extra work. Technically they are his customers and any future work they might want should go through the company, but I discussed the possibility of doing small jobs for the Girl Scouts with Jake on a volunteer basis. He grudgingly agreed I could with any job that would take less than three hours, but would have to write up a job order for anything longer, which sounded fair to me. After all, it was my time, and his company got the credit; not to mention sixty percent of all the Girl Scout cookies Juanita foisted on me every time I completed a project for them.

At the Home Depot I spent about thirty dollars for PVC pipe, elbows, T-fittings, and ABS cement to do the job and returned about forty-five minutes later. Juanita still hadn’t arrived and Agnes was beside herself as I carried the materials into the building and up to the second floor.   “I had one of the volunteers go by her townhouse and she doesn’t answer the doorbell,” she said.

“Probably because she’s not home,” I said.

“But the TV is on in the living room.”

I set the bag of PVC parts down. “Well, that doesn’t sound good.”

“No?”

“No. Maybe you should call the police and have them do a welfare check.”

“They’ll do that?”

“Sure. You can probably even go with them. Or, you can call 911 if you think she may be in trouble.”

“I think I will,” she said. “Do you mind locking up when you’re done?”

“Not at all,” I said. “But why don’t you just lock me in after I get the tools I need. It’ll take me a couple hours and I’m sure you’ll be back long before I finish and can lock up yourself.”

I could almost see a bit of relief on Agnes’s face as she left to call the cops. Obviously, she was plenty worried about her boss whose behavior was totally out of character. I went to the truck and placed the tools I needed into a five-gallon plastic bucket and carried it back into the building along with an eight-foot aluminum step ladder. Agnes locked me in as she left and I went to work. Two hours later as I was wrapping up the job Agnes still hadn’t returned. So I packed up my tools, pulled the door closed behind me, and headed home.

*  *  *  *

The smell of fresh paint hit me as I came through the door to the fixer-upper the girls and I have been working on the past eight months or so. My youngest granddaughter was standing on the fourth step of a six-foot fiberglass step ladder using a two-inch brush to trim around the bottom of a picture rail on the living room wall with a color called porcelain peach. It was a little girly-girl for me, but I could live with it and had agreed that if Franklynn was going to do the painting she could pick the color. It could be worse, a lot worse considering that her favorite color was purple.

Franklynn stands five-foot two-inches tall in her stocking feet, weighs around 110 pounds, has baby fine, honey-maple colored hair, and teak brown eyes. Next week she will finish up her junior year at Reno High and I couldn’t be prouder. Two months ago at the Nevada Sports Award banquet she was one of ten athletes honored by the Reno Gazette-Journal as the finest student-athletes in Northern Nevada high schools who have gone above and beyond in their individual various sports. When she stepped up to the podium I had to daub a tear from the corner of my eye. Why her father hadn’t attended is beyond me. George is such a jerk!

“About time you got back, Grampy,” she said. “I thought you were just going to move a couple computer cables, not go on a camporee.”

I set a bag containing two super burritos, chips, and salsa on the table in the next room. “I take it you’ve already eaten?”

“I may have had a snack or two, but I’ve been burning up a ton of calories here,” she said, laying her paintbrush across the top of the paint can sitting on the ladder’s pail shelf before climbing down. “I can probably pound down both of those bad boys.”

“What makes you so sure I brought two?”

“Oh, Grampy,” she said, opening the bag and pulling one out. “You’re so predictable.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded as she unwrapped the mono-meal, which is what she’s called burritos ever since I can remember, saying that they were a balanced diet of carbs, protein, and fat all rolled into one ready-to-eat, delicious helping. But these burritos weighed in at a little over two pounds each and I’m not so sure how healthy they are.

“Did you remember the guacamole?” she asked.

“Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?”

“Whoa, Grampy!”

“What?”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m glad. Now, why don’t you impress me and put some Saran Wrap around your brush and cover the can before you try and get on the outside of that.”

She held up the burrito and chuckled. “I’ll pound this down in a jiff. My brush isn’t going to dry out that fast.”

“Maybe not, but this isn’t a contest to see who can eat the fastest and wrapping the brush is a good habit pattern to get into. Who knows, you may get sidetracked before you get back to it again?”

She scoffed and set the burrito down. “I doubt it,” she said, ripping two one-foot sections of the thin plastic film from the roll before climbing back up the ladder and covering the can with one and wrapping the brush with the other.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She reached in the bag and pulled out a side of guac just as the doorbell rang. “Get rid of them, would you Grampy?”

“Who is it?”

“Whoever’s at the door.”

“You know who it is?”

“Probably another group of Jehovah’s Witnesses; I told them last week I couldn’t talk to them because I only worked here and the owner wasn’t home.”

I lowered my brow.

“Really,” she said, and laughed. “I was amazed they just said ‘okay’ and left. Guess they didn’t want to save the help.”

I tousled her hair. “Eat your burrito,” I said, and went to the door.

“Ah, Mr. Hale,” Detective Zorn said, as I opened it. “Just what is it with you and missing women?”

Chapter 2 – Person of Interest

Detective Zorn is the cold case detective who worked on my daughter’s disappearance case for nine years until her remains turned up beneath a remembrance tree alongside the policeman’s memorial in Idlewild Park. A little more than two years ago a storm had toppled the tree dedicated to the memory of Sgt. Roland Overlock, who’d been killed in the line of duty, and ripped half of Julie’s bones out of the ground with its roots. Although Zorn comes across as a cranky SOB, over the years I’ve come to understand that it’s only his way of dealing with the job, because solving cold cases usually doesn’t end well for either the victims or their families. Finding out who murdered my daughter didn’t bring her back or give me the closure I thought it might, particularly after one of her killers got away scot-free.

He removed his wide-brimmed hat, exposing a balding head. “Mind if I come in?”

I stepped aside feeling a twitch in my left side. “Don’t tell me Alan Starr’s trial has been postponed again?” It was originally scheduled to begin in May, but I’d heard that he somehow overdosed in jail and the trial slipped to June.

“I wouldn’t know about that. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“My grandpa didn’t do it,” Franklynn said, suddenly standing at my side.

“No, but he might have an idea who did,” Detective Zorn said, coming through the door and twirling his hat in his hands.

“Oh really?” I said.

“Yeah really,” he said, looking around the room.

“This wouldn’t happen to be about Juanita Torres, would it?”

“Who’s that Grampy?”

“It would,” he said, turning to face me.

“She’s the District Chair of the Sierra Nevada Girl Scout council,” I said. “She didn’t show up this morning when I went to reroute those computer cables at their business office.”

“So, that’s where you’ve been all morning,” Franklynn said.

Zorn looked pointedly at me.

“Rerouting the cables,” I said.

“Oh really?” Zorn said.

“Yes, really!” I said. “I thought you were a cold case detective?”

“I am, but it seems there were some similarities to another case I’ve worked on and your name came up.”

I closed the door and walked over to one of the chairs we’d moved into the house when staging the condo for sale and sat down. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid it is. Agnes Dixon mentioned that you were supposed to meet with Miss Torres this morning when Detective Yamagata showed up at the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?”

“That’s what we’re calling it.”

“So, what are these similarities you mentioned?”
“Now, Mr. Hale, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation with anyone; particularly a person of interest.”

“I told you my grandfather didn’t do it,” Franklynn said, taking a position between my chair and where the detective stood.

Zorn sighed. “I didn’t say he did, Franklynn. A person of interest is someone I want to talk to for information about a case; a suspect is somebody I think may be involved in the crime. Sometimes a person of interest becomes a suspect, but not always.”

“And not this time, either,” she said.

“So, where were you Mr. Hale?”

“I was working at the Girl Scout business offices all morning. I just got home a few minutes ago.”

“What time did you get there?”

“About 10:00 a.m., maybe a little after.”

“And where were you before that?”

Franklynn placed her hands on her hips. “He was here with me.”

Zorn twirled his hat again and looked sideways at me. “Is that so?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” my granddaughter asked, stepping forward and getting in his face.

He was six inches taller than Franklynn and a hundred pounds heavier. Even so I had the feeling that he was glad to be armed and badged as he glanced down at her and then back at me. “I asked your grandfather; I’d like for him to answer.”

“Like she said Detective, I was here with her.”

“Since when?”

“Since last night after I got back from having dinner and going to a movie with a friend.”

“And who might that be?”

Franklynn eyed me with curiosity.

I stood back up. “Look here Detective, if you’re asking me for an alibi just let me know from when to when and stop playing twenty questions. Tell me when’s the last time anyone saw Juanita and I’ll take it from there?”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Miss Dixon said her boss was still at the office when she left to go home last night around 5:30 and told me that Miss Torres planned to work another hour or two before going home herself. As far as Miss Dixon knew her boss didn’t have any plans to go out after that, but she’s gone back to the office to check Miss Torres’ desk calendar just to make sure.”

“Well, Sally Lynnwood and I were at Midtown Eats enjoying a couple classic burgers before Juanita went home. After dinner we went to the movies at Century Riverside and I took Sally home right after that.”

“What’d you see?”

“North by Northwest; it’s a special two-night event where they’re bringing classic movies back to the big screen. Tonight’s the last night; you should really check it out.”

“Right, like I have time to catch a flick.”

“One of Hitchcock’s best.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Detective Zorn said, and looked back at Franklynn. “And you were here when he came home?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I made us some hot chocolate and we watched the 11:00 o’clock news.”

He turned to me. “You got home pretty early then?”

“Had a busy day today; I needed to get my beauty sleep.”

Franklynn scoffed and Zorn snorted. “You realize we’ll have to confirm your alibi Mr. Hale?”

“I’d expect nothing less, Detective,” I said, glancing toward the front door. “So, unless you have any other questions, our lunch is getting cold.”

He turned toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

 *  *  *  *

I haven’t taken many jobs at Handyman Inc. since finding the Ulrich’s little boy who had been kidnapped by his mother and her lover; just enough to stay employed like most of the other part-time idle rich guys, as our scheduler, Max Johnson, likes to call them. Not that I’m idle or rich by any stretch of the imagination, but the reward money from the kid’s return has allowed me to spend more time fixing up my own place, while waiting for my condo to sell.

“See what I mean about getting sidetracked,” I said to Franklynn after we finished lunch.

“You’re right again, Grampy. Why don’t you call Mr. Edwards and try to find out what’s going on with this missing Girl Scout leader.”

“You mean District Chair.”

“Whatever,” she said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Titles are important to people, Franklynn, the same as their names.”

“So is finding out what happened to Miss Torres.”

“I don’t think I have a dog in that fight.”

“You do if Detective Zorn is looking at you.”

Chapter 3 – Rumpled Bedspreads

Dale Edwards came to work for Handyman Inc. a couple years after leaving the Reno Police Department where he’d been a Special Weapons and Tactics team member, otherwise known as SWAT, for most of his twenty-year career. In between leaving the PD and arriving here he tried teaching high school English but didn’t have the patience or personality to deal with hormonally hopped-up teenagers and, unfortunately, had shoved one of his students into the lockers just as the principal came around the corner. Although he hadn’t been fired, or as he’s said on more than one occasion “ever had another problem with that particular student,” when the school year ended, he and the principal agreed that teaching wasn’t such a good second career choice for him.

I called Dale as Franklynn went back to painting the living room walls.

“You know I’m not on the job any more,” he said, after I explained the situation.

“I know, but you still know some who are and they’ll talk to you.”

“They’ll talk to you too.”

“But they won’t give me the answers I need.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“It could very well be,” I said, keeping a civil tone yet feeling offended at the rejection, particularly after splitting the hundred twenty thousand dollar kidnapping insurance reward Herr Ulrich’s company had given me for finding his son. Sure I’d kept eighty thousand for myself and given J T Mayberry, Larry Kyle, Lew Inman, and Dale Edwards, the other handyman from work who’d helped me, ten grand each, but I was the one who’d been charged with treason and taken into Federal custody. “Detective Zorn said there were some similarities to another case he worked on and I need to know what they are.”

“Why does that matter? You know who killed your daughter. Two of ‘em are in Federal prison and the third is long gone.”

“What if he’s back?” I asked, raising my voice.

“Stanford Quick?”

I nodded without commenting, trying to keep it under control.

“That guy was plenty smart and, like I said, he’s long gone. If there are any similarities between Miss Torres disappearance and any of the women Quick and his psychotic partners snatched, I think it’s probably a copycat.”

Maybe, but I wasn’t so sure. “I didn’t mention this at the time, but when the girls and I were over in Winnemucca looking for the Ulrich boy, I thought I saw him.”

“Look, Chip, he’d be crazy to remain in the country, let alone Nevada.”

“The guy I saw had a full head of hair, beard, and moustache, but there was just something about his eyes that raised the hair on the back of my neck.”

“Like I said—”

“And I think he recognized me too,” I interrupted.

“I think maybe you’re a little crazy yourself, Chip.”

“Maybe so, but I put an end to his sick, twisted operation. He tried to kill me more than once to protect it and I’m sure he’d like to finish the job just to get even.”

“Then why doesn’t he just come after you?”

“Because he’s a sick and twisted individual.”

“Well, if it’ll put your mind at ease, I’ll see what I can find out.”

*  *  *  *

The girls’ father was back east at a Best Food’s conference after attending the Mountain West Championship in San Jose, California where my eldest Granddaughter, Winston Hale Pierce, played center field for the University of Nevada, Reno softball team and had competed in the six-team, double-elimination tournament at the end of the season. UNR Wolf Pack had made it through three rounds and into the semi-finals where they’d been eliminated by one run, much the same way Winston’s high school team had missed going to the state championship playoffs the year before. The team was returning Sunday evening via a post tournament trip to Disneyland and Franklynn and I had decided we should meet the plane after finishing work on the house.

A blue and silver Wolf Pack banner hung from the ceiling above the Bighorn sheep display just outside Concourse B’s security checkpoint where a taxidermist had stuffed and mounted three different species of ram atop a natural looking desert mountain terrain. We sat on the floor with our backs against the wall and ate sandwiches from the terminal’s La Brea Bakery and waited for the team to arrive home. I had the BBQ short rib and Franklynn had the turkey salad. Bells, whistles, and obnoxious music from innumerable slot machines filled the concourse and mixed with departing and arriving flight announcements from the airport’s public address system.

“You’d think they could wait until they got to town to waste their money on one-arm bandits,” I said, looking at the people seated in front of a bank of shiny chrome and curved glass Electronic Gaming Machines on the other side of the checkpoint.

“Maybe they’re leaving,” Franklynn said between mouthfuls, “and just trying to win a little money back.”

“I doubt that. Slot machines suck your money away faster than any other casino game.”

“Yes, but unlike traditional table games there’s no decision making and no skill involved.”

“The decision is not to play, sweetie.”

“There’s also no judgment or peer pressure from the prying eyes of other players—no one to judge you for a bad move you may have made. Slots are 100 percent non-threatening to play.”

“And you know this how?”

“Basic psychology,” she said, and took another bite of her sandwich.

“Not because you’ve played?”

She scoffed. “I work too hard for my money.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said, about the time I caught sight of Winston coming down the concourse holding hands with her boyfriend, Coit Sheldon. Although I hate to admit it, they’re a good-looking couple—even in casual attire. Winston’s silky ponytail was pulled through the back of her baseball hat and bouncing on her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt under her softball jersey that was open in the front like an unbuttoned cardigan sweater and very sporty looking. Her smoky gray eyes were filled with laughter at something Coit probably said and, obviously, any thoughts of losing the tournament were somewhere in the rearview mirror of her mind.

Coit had wavy, saddle-brown hair, dark-brown eyes, and dimpled cheeks as he and my granddaughter seemed to be sharing a special moment. He too was wearing a T-shirt and jeans but no softball jersey. His UNR T-shirt was untucked and looked much better that way on him than it would on me. And even though an untucked shirt appears like it would be more comfortable it just doesn’t feel right because, when I was in high school, an untucked shirt was an automatic trip to the principal’s office. Funny how such a little thing can have such an impact throughout your life.

“Here she comes,” I said, standing and finishing the last bite of my sandwich.

“Would you look at this crush action,” Franklynn said, wrapping up the remainder of her sandwich and sticking it back in the bag. “Where’d Coit come from?”

“He probably flew over to watch the games.”

“No doubt,” she said, getting to her feet. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody ever comes to my swim meets.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, sweetie, but when you make it to the Olympics, the whole world will be there.”

“That’s not what I meant, either.”

I knew that, too. I wasn’t sure if she had a boyfriend or not because she never talked about one, but I’d confronted her father more than once about showing the same interest in Franklynn’s extracurricular activities and achievements that he did for Winston’s. However, I doubted that George would fly to Omaha to watch the Olympic trials, let alone Tokyo to see her swim if she made the team.

“Hey Grandpa, hey Fran,” Winston said, as she and Coit exited the security gate, “what are you guys doing here?”

“We’re studying the ethology of Bighorn sheep,” Franklynn said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the display. “What do you think we’re doing here?”

Before I could say anything, Winston dropped Coit’s hand, laughed, and grabbed her sister and me in a big bear hug. “That’s rather redundant, wouldn’t you say?”

I shrugged, not having the foggiest idea what she was talking about.

“Just seeing if you’re listening,” Franklynn said, with a throaty chuckle and wrapping her arms around both of us. “How are you holding up?”

“Coit’s helping me power through.”

I reached outside the circle and shook his hand. “Thanks Coit. I hope Disneyland didn’t make that job more difficult.”

“No way, Mr. Hale.”

Smiling, I dropped his hand realizing that a full grown man was calling me Mister. Not that I wasn’t forty-four or -five years older and he still looked like a lanky teenager. Then again, I probably look older than I feel. In fact, I’m sure of it.

The softball team said a few heartfelt goodbyes to one another as they waited to collect their luggage and then scattered for the summer. Coit had parked in long-term parking before flying to San Jose and drove Winston back to her apartment where Franklynn and I met up with them. The apartment had been closed up since shortly after the Spring Semester ended when Winston left for the Mountain West Championship tournament and her roommates went home for the summer. She’d set the security alarm I insisted on before leaving, and the keypad just inside the door began beeping as we entered. Coit set her suitcase down and Winston punched in her security code to disarm the system.

Franklynn plopped down on the floral upholstered, thrift-shop davenport in the middle of the room. “Okay, Freckles, let’s have it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Winston said.

“Why not, isn’t that what your roommates call you?”

“You’re not my roommate.”

Franklynn waved her hand dismissively; “Technicalities.”

“I’ve got to get home,” Coit said, leaning over Winston and giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Sorry babe,” he said, glancing back at Franklynn, “I promised my folks soon as I got home I’d—”

“Can’t you do it tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I’ll call you,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

Winston glared at Franklynn. “Now, look what you’ve done.”

She rolled her eyes. “What?”

“Don’t give me that.”

“You’ve been with him all week. Grandpa and I just want our turn.”

“I’m picking up on what you’re putting down, but you’re wrong.”

“I certainly hope so,” I said.

Winston tossed her purse on the seat of a wingback chair and headed for the kitchen. “She is, Grandpa.”

“Sure, Win. Absolutely.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee Grandpa?” Winston asked.

“I think it might be a little late for that.”

“Since when?” Franklynn asked, curling her legs up beside her on the davenport.

“Argh, what the heck,” Winston said, from the kitchen.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” I asked, heading there myself.

“Someone left an empty beer bottle on the sink. It wasn’t there when I left.”

“One of your roommates, Duh!” Franklynn said.

“They were already gone,” Winston said, turning to face me as I came into the kitchen. “They went home right after finals; didn’t even wait for their grades to be posted.”

“Like they’re going to fail an athlete on a full-ride scholarship,” Franklynn said, joining us.

“Don’t look at me,” I said, “I don’t drink beer. Your landlord didn’t have any maintenance work done when you were gone did he?”

“No, and he doesn’t have the security code.”

“How about Coit?” Franklynn asked. “Did he come over to pick up something you maybe forgot?”

“I didn’t forget anything!”

“She’s just asking,” I said. “Trying to be helpful; maybe you should take a look around and see if anything else is out of place.”

“Or missing,” Franklynn said.

“Like what?” Winston asked.

Franklynn rolled her eyes again. “Oh, I don’t know, like maybe some of your underwear.”

The color drained from Winston’s face. “Eeeww! You better not be punking me, Fran.”

“I haven’t been over here, either,” she said, raising her right hand. “Swear to God.”

“Who else besides your roommates, sister, and me have the code?” I asked.

“Nobody. Not even Dad.”

“Coit?” Franklynn asked.

“Not.”

I wrinkled my brow as I looked at her. “Really?”

“He had a temporary user code when helping set up for Fran’s birthday party,” she said, scurrying out of the kitchen and down the hall toward her bedroom, “but I deleted it.”

“How about your roommates, maybe one of their family members or friends,” I called after her.

“Oh, my gosh,” Winston said, stopping in the doorway to her room. I arrived a couple steps behind and looked in over her shoulder. Her bed was still made, but the spread was rumpled as if someone had taken a nap on it.

“I take it that isn’t the way you left it?” I said.

“Not even close,” she said, moving down the hall and looking into her roommates’ rooms where I could have bounced a quarter off the bedspreads.

“Maybe your bedspread got wrinkled when you packed your suitcase on it.”

“I smoothed it out after I finished, Grandpa.”

“Are you sure? As I recall you were in a hurry to get to the airport.”

“I’m positive.”

“Then you’d better call Karisa and Lainey. See if they returned when you were at the tournament.”

“Or gave the code to anyone,” Franklynn said.

Winston glanced at her watch. “It’s too late to call Lainey and I doubt that she would have come back two-thousand miles for anything. It’s only about seven hundred and fifty to Karisa’s, but I doubt that she would have either.”

“Call and ask her anyway,” I said. “See if she gave the code to anyone?”

“And ask about that perv who was stalking her,” Franklynn said.

“Let me check to see if anything’s missing first,” Winston said, venturing into Karisa’s room. “She didn’t leave much behind.”

Except for a throw rug beside Karisa’s bed that had an upturned corner, I didn’t see evidence of anyone having been there. A thin layer of unbroken dust covered the top of her empty nightstand beside the bed and her dresser across the room where she’d removed all the stuffed animals after finding a Web camera among them aimed at her bed.

“I treat dust like a table ornament,” Franklynn said, dragging her finger across the top of the dresser. “I don’t mind if anyone signs their name in it, I just don’t want them dating it.”

“You’re welcome to come over and clean, Martha Stewart breath,” Winston said, opening Karisa’s closet where a few winter clothes still hung and a pile of stuffed animals were jammed into a back corner of the shelf above the rod.

“I don’t think so,” Franklynn said.

“And I don’t see Garfield.”

“Maybe she took him with her.”

“Something else to ask,” I said. “Notice anything missing besides that?”

“I don’t really know what all she had, or what she may have taken with her. I wasn’t here when she left.”

Franklynn scoffed. “I thought you said she and Lainey came back and celebrated after your last classes were over.”

I glanced sideways at Winston.

“I was working that day; when I got home they were gone.”

It had been pretty quiet when we entered Karisa’s bedroom and I’d learned from Lew Inman, a former US Treasury Agent who worked part time for Handyman Inc. that motion-sensitive cameras turned on and off whenever someone enters or leaves a room. Depending on the manufacturer, sometimes there’d be an audible click or buzz, particularly in the less expensive models. But I’d heard neither and, except for missing an occasional word or two, my hearing is still pretty good.

“Just like that,” I said.

“They each sent me a text and promised to let me know when they made it home.”

I glanced around Karisa’s room looking for a reflecting glint from the lens of a hidden Web camera. Not that it wouldn’t be difficult to miss a pinhole somewhere in the wall if the light didn’t hit it exactly right, or behind a vent register or return, an electrical outlet, switch cover, picture frame, or smoke alarm.

“And did they?”

“Absolutely.”

Lew had also educated me that spy cameras with RF transmitters had a range of about 150 to 300 feet, and the ones with micro SD cards required someone to enter the premises, pop it out, and download the images periodically. But neither of those seemed likely considering Karisa’s stalker would have had to hide a receiver somewhere within that distance, or get past the monitored alarm system Winston had installed in the apartment. Even so, I’d once found him parked two doors down from the girls’ apartment on the wrong side of the street staring at his cell phone before the sun came up.

We moved across the hallway to Lainey’s room and didn’t find anything out of place. I was surprised how much dust had collected on the furniture in such a short period of time. Obviously, Winston had only cleaned the common areas of her apartment before going to the softball tournament. She pulled her cell phone out of her hip pocket and began texting.

“You’re not going to call her?” I asked.

“No, I’m texting first to find out when she’s available.”

“Just call her.”

“She may be busy right now, Grandpa, and I don’t want to interrupt her. She’ll get back to me, and so will Lainey. I’m sending this to both of them.”

“Get with it Grampy,” Franklynn said.

I placed my hand on Winston’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I don’t want you staying here until we figure this thing out, okay sweetie?”

“Well, I’m not staying at Dad’s, you don’t have another room in your house, and I don’t feel like sleeping on the sofa.”

“And I don’t like the idea of you staying here all alone.”

“I can stay with her Grampy.”

Winston frowned.

“I don’t like that option either,” I said. “There’s still a bed in the condo and I’d feel better if you stayed there.”

“I’d still be all alone.”

“Yes, but it’ll make me feel better. I’ll phone the realtor and let her know it’s occupied and to make sure they call before showing it to anyone.”

“I’ll be all right here, Grandpa. Honest.”

“Let’s not take any unnecessary chances, sweetheart. I’d like to have Lew sweep the place and check it for bugs and hidden cameras first. I’d also like to rekey the locks and have you change the security code.”

“You really think all that’s necessary?”

“I do. Besides, you’ll have the condo all to yourself, same as here. Plus there’s the pool, a Jacuzzi, and weight room, which are amenities you don’t have here.”

She sighed. “We have all of them on campus.”

“You didn’t check in here…” Franklynn said, opening the door to the bathroom and finding the toilet seat up. “Uh, I think maybe Grampy’s right, Win.”