She opened the bedroom door, and Ming, frustrated and cranky, bounded out. Alison scooped her up and gave her a conciliatory hug. "Sorry, kit-cat, but I couldn't have you scooting out to go play in traffic."

      Ming would have none of this and wriggled out of Alison's arms. She stalked away in a feline huff.

      Alison sighed. She understood how Ming felt. She, too, felt hemmed in and out of sorts.

      She needed to get out of the apartment. After Wednesday night's strange encounter with Carol Hartinger, Alison had shut herself in, depending on her amulet and Claude's charm lamps to keep her safe. Yesterday after calling in sick to work and feeling guilty about it, she had spent the day boxing up Brad's possessions. She hated herself for doing his work, but knew that his crap was likely to stay underfoot until the end of the semester if she didn't. She'd left countless messages for him at the law journal office, but all had gone unanswered.

      What she really should be doing now was hunting for a new apartment. Leave behind all the painful memories mooching around this place and start fresh somewhere else. The trouble was, Alison had "loaned" Joey three hundred dollars, and now she couldn't easily come up with first and last-month's rent, plus a security deposit.

      So, it looked like she was stuck for the moment. And unless she wanted to pay double her normal rent from here on out, she would have to convert the workshop back into a second bedroom and advertise for a roommate. That notion depressed her beyond words.

      After feeding Ming, Alison decided to get down to work. She dug out the cardboard box full of stuff taken from Joey's apartment and removed a glossy catalogue titled "Hot Flick Picks, The Best in Adult Entertainment on Videocassette." Flipping through it, she came to a group of circled entries: Luscious Lollipops, Bodacious Babes in Bondage and Firewomen in Heat. All three starred Tiffany Wellington.

      At the bottom of the page, Joey had printed a telephone number with a Los Angeles area code. Alison picked up her phone and dialed the number.

      "Touch of Venus Productions."

      "Uh, yes, hello. My name's Alison Davis. I'm the casting director for a film shooting here in San Francisco. I'm trying to locate Tiffany Wellington, the star of Firewomen in Heat."

      "One minute. I'll switch you to Sid Lynch."

      ...

      "Lynch, here!"

      "Hello, I'm trying to locate Tiffany Wellington. Can you tell me who manages her and how I can get ahold of them?"

      "Jeez, lady, Tiffany ain't doing films any more. Which is a damn shame, 'cuz she was one of our biggest stars. I hear she's up north someplace, doing live shows."

      Lynch sounded as if he was in the middle of lunch, eating some overstuffed and juicy sandwich at his desk.

      Alison said, "I had no idea. Who's her agent?"

      "Don't know who's handling her now."

      "Well, who was handling her when she was in L.A.?"

      "Guy by the name of Harry Devlitt."

      "Do you have Mr. Devlitt's telephone number?"

      "Sure, but it don't mean anything anymore. Harry got hisself croaked in Frisco two-three weeks ago. Beaten to death in the park or something."

      "Oh. I'm sorry."

      "We weren't related." More chewing sounds.

      Alison was beginning to feel queasy. "I take it that Tiffany Wellington was a stage name. You don't happen to know her real name, do you?"

      "Lemme see. I got her W-4 form around here someplace." Alison waited while Lynch rummaged through his desk. "Here we go. Rebecca Toland. Don't know what good it'll do you, but that's her original moniker."

      "Well, thank you, Mr. Lynch. You've been a real help."

      "Don't mention it. My pleasure."

      She hung up. Another dip into the box brought forth a print-out of Joey's mailing list for The Splatter Times. The list had apparently not been updated recently. Changes of address, scrawled on the backs of envelopes and bus transfers, had been paperclipped to the front sheet.

      Alison scanned the list. During their ride through the streets of San Francisco, Concasseur had let slip to Joey that the Walkman's first name was, of all things, Delmore. And what do you know, here at the bottom of the print-out was an entry for a Delmore Zweibeck, who lived less than two blocks away from the Crossroads Center.

      Zweibeck's address had been crossed out, with GONE, NO FORWARDING penned over it.

Alison called Directory Assistance. They had no listing for a Delmore, Del or D. Zweibeck within the city limits of San Francisco. She decided to check out the Walkman's last known address herself.

      Forty minutes later, Alison stood outside a well-kept brick apartment building. Zweibeck had lived in Apartment 3B, but the name above the appropriate intercom buttom had been changed to W. Robards. Alison pressed the button and hoped for a response.

      A man's voice answered. "Yes?"

      She spoke into the microphone, enunciating clearly. "Hello, my name is Alison Davis. I'm looking for Delmore Zweibeck."

      "Zweibeck doesn't live here anymore."

      "I know. May I come up and speak to you for a moment? I promise not to take much of your time."

      "I don't know. Let me take a look at you."

      After a moment a thin, mustached man in a red shirt and white painter's pants came to the door. He studied her through the reinforced glass.

      "Are you Zweibeck's friend?" he said.

      Alison said, "I wouldn't say that. Mister Zweibeck owes a friend of mine a lot of money, and we can't seem to track him down. Zweibeck and I have never met."

      "It's just as well. The man's a complete loser. I'm Winston Robards, by the way."

      "Pleased to meet you, Winston. May I come in?"

      Robards shrugged. "Oh, what the hell. You don't seem dangerous." He unlocked the door, let her into the foyer, but made no move to take her any farther.

      Alison said, "You knew Zweibeck before you moved into his old apartment."

      "Oh, sure. I used to live right down the hall from the brute. When Zweibeck moved out, my roommate Mitch and I weren't getting along, so I just packed up and moved two doors away. The light's better here for my painting. And the extra breathing space has made a world of difference to my relationship with Mitch."

      "Let me make sure we're talking about the same Delmore Zweibeck. A tall blond guy, wears sunglasses and a portable cassette player?"

      Robards nodded vigorously. "That's him. An up-tight surfer boy from Venice, big on biceps and short on brains. He had a thing for expensive stereo equipment and used to play loud punk music at all hours of the night. Real tacky."

      "What was his personality like?"

      "Just atrocious. Silent, surly, stupid and a raving homophobe to boot. He tried to take Mitch apart for some silly comment Mitch made when Zweibeck came back all sweaty from a workout one night. Luckily, Mitch is fast on his feet and made it back to our apartment before Zweibeck could rip his head off."

      "Doesn't sound like the type to have many friends."

      Robards rolled his eyes. "You'd be surprised. A lot of women were in and out of his place. All kinds, too. Sweet-faced college kids, biker chicks, housewife-types, you name it."

      The thought of bedding the Walkman made her skin crawl. "Did you ever notice an elderly, silver-haired gentleman visiting."

      "Real thin, with a face like you'd find on a pirate flag? Yeah, once, just before Zweibeck moved out. I saw them talking in the hall. The old guy gave me the creeps. He stared at me like I was some kind of insect."

      Robards seemed relaxed and perfectly willing to keep on talking. Alison asked, "When did Zweibeck move out?"

      "About four months ago. Just packed up his stuff during the middle of the night and split. No one has any idea where he moved to. I see him around town sometimes, but I certainly never stop to chat."

      "Do you know what Zweibeck does for work?"

      "He said he was a bike messenger in the Financial District. But the rent in this place is pretty steep, and Zweibeck always seemed to have plenty of cash for cameras, electronic gizmos and a membership at the trendy gym up the street. He had something going on the side."

      "Like what?"

      Robards gave her another look-over and finally made up his mind about something. "C'mon. I'll show you."

      They climbed two flights of stairs to Robards' apartment. The place was bright and airy, the perfect environment for an artist. Robards had set up an easel in one drop-clothed corner. A half-finished abstraction in oils glistened on a small canvas. Not wanting to seem snoopy, Alison only glanced at the painting, but she immediately liked it.

      Robards led her into the bedroom, saying, "Excuse the mess. Housekeeping takes a low priority when I'm trying to finish a piece."

      The room looked oddly familiar. Before Alison could put her finger on why, Robards positioned her in front of a big mirror attached to one wall. He then walked into an adjoining closet and shut the door behind him.

      After moment, Robards shouted, "Do something distinctive!"

      "Huh?"

      "Make a face, wave your arms or something. Just don't tell me what you're doing."

      Alison felt silly, but she obligingly hopped up and down on one foot.

      Still within the closet, Robards called to her, "You're hopping on your left foot."

      She stopped, momentarily mystified. Then everything fell into place.

      Robards emerged from his hiding place and said, "Was I right?"

      "You sure were." She touched the mirror's surface. "A two-way mirror and a false wall?"

      "Uh huh. There's enough space back there for a camera set-up. And when I moved in, I noticed a strange hole in the ceiling right above the bed. Probably a microphone hookup."

      On the Razor Cut videotape, there had been a distinctive water stain on the wall beside the bed. Now that she knew what to look for, Alison could see that Robards had covered the tell-tale stain with a framed Georgia O'Keeffe flower print.

      She shivered as she realized, without a doubt, that this was the bedroom in which Tiffany Wellington, a.k.a. Rebecca Toland, had been killed by the Walkman, a.k.a. Delmore Zweibeck.