“The page for March ninth is blank.

Nothing for Megan, nothing for you.”

“Bring that logbook to the sixth floor of the Union Street building Friday at ten thirty,” I said.

He passed the stamped paper back to me without another word.

Brenda got to room 114 at twenty past three and slipped in before I had the door all the way open.

She had on her navy blue teller blazer, her black leather purse pressed flat to her ribs like a shield.

“I’ve got three minutes,” Brenda said, standing in the middle of the carpet with her gloves still on.