I waited, staring down at the welcome mat. The letter B was defined in dark bristles, surrounded by bristles in a lighter shade. Did they have enough mud in Florida to justify a mat like that? It was coarse enough to rip the bottom of your shoe off. I glanced to my left. Just off the balcony, I could see palm trees with little beaded skirts near the top. Pat Usher was back, still talking through the crack.

"I must have thrown it out. She was in Sarasota last I heard."

Already, I was tired of talking to the door and I felt a surge of irritation. "Do you mind if I come in? It's about the settlement on somebody's estate. She could pick up two or three thousand dollars if I can just get her signature.' Appeal to greed, I thought. Appeal to the secret yearning for a windfall. Sometimes I use it as a ploy when I am tracking down a deadbeat who's run out on a bill. This time it was even true, so my voice had this wonderful sincere ring to it.

"Did the manager send you up here?"

"Come on, would you quit being paranoid? I'm looking for Elaine and I want to talk to you. You're the only person so far who seems to have any idea where she is."

Silence. She was pondering this as though it were an I.Q. test and she could pad the results. I had to struggle with the urge to bite. This was the only lead I had and I didn't want to blow it.

"All right," she said reluctantly, "let me get some clothes on first."

When she finally opened the door, she was wearing a float, one of those gauzy print caftans you slip over your head when you're too lazy to put on your underpants. She had adhesive tape across her nose. Her eyes were puffy and circled with bruises that were fading from blue to green. She had a strip of clear tape under each eye and her tan had dimmed to a sallow hue that made her look like she had a mild case of hepatitis.

"I was in a car accident and broke my nose," she said. "I don't like for people to see me like this."