Now it was Tuesday morning, a little before 10:00. My partner for the call, my favorite partner in CPS, for that matter, named Bettina Keck, stood with me-Wyatt Hunt-outside the building after the first few rings from the button in the lobby went unanswered.

"Why am I not believing nobody's home?" Bettina said.

It was freezing standing there and I had already had enough waiting. I was going down the list of residents' namecards, pressing each button one after the other. "I hate when they make us do this. If anyone answers, you up for talking?"

"Why me?"

"You're smarter? Wait, no, that can't be it."

"Funnier, too," she said. And as if on cue, a squawk came out of the box, the voice of an elderly woman. "Who's down there?"

Bettina leaned close to the speaker. "FedEx delivery."

"See?" I said. "Brilliant."

Bettina shushed me and we heard, "I didn't order anything."

"What apartment are you?"

"Eight."

My finger went to the namecard for Bettina to read. She got it without missing a beat. "You're Mrs. Craft?"

"I am."

"Well, you've got to sign for your delivery."

"What is it?"

"Right now, ma'am, it's a brown box. If you don't want it, I'll just have it sent back."

"To where?"

"Let me see. It looks like a jewelry store. Maybe you won a prize."

A pause. Then, "Oh, all right."

And the door buzzed, letting us into the building.

"You might be smarter at that," I said, holding the door for my partner.

"No might about it." She smiled at me. "Best part of the job."

We took the stairs, through a door just inside the entrance, and came out on the third floor. The Dade residence was number 22, down the hallway on our left, and we stood in front of its door, listening to the television playing inside. Bettina nodded and I knocked. Immediately, the TV sound diminished. I knocked again. And again. "Whoever just turned down the television," I said in a loud and authoritative tone, "open the door, please."