When I reached the office, I opened a file on Elaine Boldt, logging the time I'd put in so far and the information I had. I tried the Florida number, letting it ring maybe thirty times without luck, and then I put in a call to the sales office of the Boca Raton condominium. They gave me the name of the resident manager in Elaine Boldt's building, a Roland Makowski, apartment 101, who picked up on the first ring.

"Makowski here."

I told him as briefly as possible who I was and why I was trying to get in touch with Elaine Boldt.

"She didn't come down this year," he said. "She's usually here about this time, but I guess she had a change of plans."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I haven't seen her. I've been up and down and around this building day in and day out and I never laid eyes on her. That's all I know. I guess she could be here if she's always someplace where I'm not," he said. "That friend of hers, Pat, is here, but Mrs. Boldt went off someplace else is what I was told. Maybe she could tell you where. I just bumped into her hanging towels out on the rail which we don't allow. The balcony's not a drying rack and I told her as much. She kinda went off in a huff."

"Can you tell me her last name?"

"What?"

"Can you tell me Pat's last name? Mrs. Boldt's friend."

"Oh. Yes."

I waited a moment. "I've got a pencil and paper," I said.

"Oh. It's Usher. Like in a movie theater. She's sublet, she said. What's your name again?"

I gave him my name again and my office number in case he wanted to get in touch. It was not a satisfactory conversation. Pat Usher seemed to be the only link to Elaine Boldt's whereabouts and I thought it essential to talk to her as soon as possible.

I put in another call to Elaine's Florida number, letting it ring until I got annoyed with the sound. Nothing. If Pat Usher was still in the apartment, she was resolutely refusing to answer the phone.