On the sidewalk, girls jumped rope. Jefferson cruised past in his rented sedan, his eyes scanning the parked cars, the doorways, the three Hispanic men standing at the corner liquor store.

He watched behind him in the rearview mirror, then turned right. Continuing around the block, he glanced at every car. A panel truck appeared on the narrow street, the late afternoon sunlight flashing from its blue lacquer. The customized van eased into the narrow driveway of one of the small houses lining the barrio street. A teenager got out.

Jefferson continued his loop. Approaching the apartment house again, he parked and waited. The three men at the liquor store door went their separate ways, one man carrying his six-pack of beer to a truck loaded with a lawn mower and tools, the other two walking away. The four young girls jumping rope continued their game.

Finally, he left the car. He hurried to the entry of the Riveras' apartment house. At the stairs, he stopped and listened to the televisions and voices and footsteps in the old building. A woman laughed behind a door. Applause came from a TV. A toilet flushed. He climbed the stairs silently, easing his weight slowly on the old wood of each step.

He stayed against the hallway wall, sliding his feet along the old linoleum to avoid announcing his approach with footsteps. At the Riveras' door, he stood absolutely still, his back pressed against the wall, listening with his ears and with the flesh of his back.

Nothing moved inside the apartment. Jefferson took a quarter from his pocket and dropped it. The coin rang on the linoleum. It rolled to a stop against the door. Jefferson listened. He heard nothing beyond the door.