He knew her immediately. She wore a loose brown jacket, a little too long, a bit out of fashion, but neat and well-tended. Her hair was short, careful, tidy. Her head was tipped back so she could look up at the top shelves, following a line of books on antiques. She was plain, without makeup, not thin or fat, not tall or short, wearing oversize glasses with tortoiseshell frames. A woman who wouldn't be noticed by the other person in an elevator. She stood looking up at the top shelf, and Koop said, "Can I reach something for you?"

"Oh… I don't know." She tried a small smile, but it seemed nervous. She had trouble adjusting it.

"Well, if I can," he said politely.

"Thanks." She didn't turn away. She was waiting for something. She didn't know how to make it happen herself.

"I missed the reading," Koop said. "I just finished the Rubaiyat. I thought there might be something, you know, analogous…"

And a moment later, the woman was saying, "… it's Harriet. Harriet Wannemaker."

Sara Jensen, spread on her bed, twitched once.

Koop, just about to step toward her dresser, froze. Sara had been a heavy smoker in college: her cigarette subconscious could smell the nicotine coming from Koop's lungs, but she was too far down to wake up. She twitched again, then relaxed. Koop, heart hammering, moved closer, reached out, and almost touched her foot.

And thought: What am I doing?

He backed a step away, transfixed, the moonlight playing over her body.

Gold.

He let out his breath, turned again toward the dresser. Women keep every goddamned thing in the bedroom-or the kitchen-and Jensen was no different. The apartment had a double-locked door, had monitor cameras in the hall, had a private patrol that drove past a half-dozen times a night, occasionally stopping to snoop. She was safe, she thought. Her jewelry case, of polished black walnut, sat right there on the dressing table.