NELSON SECURITY HAS ITS MAIN OFFICE LOCATED in a strip mall in Chula Vista. Not a particularly nice office in a not-so-nice neighborhood. Two Hispanic teens in baggy jeans and dizzyingly white T-shirts lounge in front of the 7-Eleven next door. They eye me first, but it's my car that holds their attention. And not in the car-enthusiast kind of way, but the wondering-what-they-can-get-for-it-from-the-neighborhood-chop-shop kind of way. I've seen the look before.

I make a point of sounding the beep on the Jag's remote. I have a state-of-the-art alarm system. Not that it did me any good when a pack of werewolves attacked it a few months ago. These guys don't look like werewolves. And I can keep an eye out through the window while I'm inside.

There's no one behind the reception counter when I walk in. There is a two-way mirror behind it.

Shit. Let's hope I can keep the attention of whoever comes out to greet me before he or she notices I'm casting no reflection.

And wouldn't it be nice if that someone was Jason Shelton.

No such luck.

A woman pushes through a door to the right of the desk. She's about thirty, a little thick through the middle but with the biggest breasts I've ever seen. They strain at the buttons of a pink cotton blouse like two overripe melons. It's hard to keep my eyes off them, but I force myself to look up, noting that she has beautiful green eyes and a great smile. I doubt many men have ever noticed, either.

"Good morning," she says. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for an employee of yours. Jason Shelton."

She sniffs. "Welcome to the club."

The reply raises my eyebrows. "He doesn't work here anymore?"

"Good question. He never quit, just hasn't shown up for work for the last two weeks."

"Great." I let a whine of irritation creep in. "And his phone has been disconnected. He's my cousin. He invited me to stay with him for a few days but this is the only address he gave me. Shit. My place is being fumigated. I can't believe he forgot."

She raises a shoulder. "Sorry, I can't help."

I blow out a breath. "How about giving me his home address? Maybe he hasn't left town, just got a new job. It really isn't like him to walk out without giving notice. I could tell him he needs to get in touch with you."

She eyes me. "We are a security company. We don't give out employee's personal information."

Okay, lie number one didn't work. I blow out an exasperated breath and reach into my jacket. I pull out a small leather wallet and flash a badge-quickly.

"Okay, I'll be honest with you. My name is Cordelia Case. I'm an undercover cop working a robbery detail."

I repocket the badge before she gets a good look at it. Otherwise, she'd see it was a tin sheriff's badge I'd picked up in Deadwood on vacation three years ago. David and I have used it in our work. No one yet has looked at it closely enough to realize it's a fake.

Green eyes, here, is no different. However, her expression does change from suspicion to concern. "You think Jason-?"

"We suspect Shelton is involved in a series of burglaries. Most of the houses involved belong to your clients. The robberies started two weeks ago. About the time you say he stopped showing up for work. The address we have for him belongs to his dead mother. We 're hoping you'll be willing to cooperate. Save your company the embarrassment of being implicated."

She raises an eyebrow. "We haven't had any reports of burglaries."

Smart cookie. "We've encouraged the victims to keep it quiet. When our investigation is over, you'll be given full credit for cooperation.

And exonerated from any hint of complicity." A pause. "Of course, you have to swear you won't mention this to anyone until we have Jason in custody."

She fixes me with a steely gaze that makes me think she may ask to see the badge again "Not even my boss?"

"Especially not your boss." I lean over the counter and lower my voice. "He's not out of the woods yet himself."

Her eyes widen. Then abruptly, she turns away from me and heads for the desk.

I barely have time to dive below counter level, out of mirror range. I fumble with my shoelaces until I hear her once more at the counter.

When I straighten up, she's walking her fingers through a Rolodex. She pulls out a card and hands it to me.

"This is the address we have for Jason. You're sure we'll get exonerated when Jason is arrested? My boss will kill me if I keep this from him and something goes wrong."

I raise my right hand. "You have my word."

Now to get out of here before she thinks too long about my story or turns around and glances in that mirror.

I'm almost at the door when she calls out for me to stop.

I freeze.

Shit.

I swivel to face her, prepared to bolt.

But she's looking at me, not at the mirror. "When you arrest Jason," she says, "think you can get him to return the magnetic car signs?

Those things cost us fifty bucks a piece."

"Absolutely."

Back in the car, I release a long breath and take a look at the card. The address is here in Chula Vista, but at the other end of town.

Since the streets are still slick with rain, I forgo the freeway and take surface roads. Might take me a little longer to get there, but I don 't need any more frustration.

Jason's address is an apartment complex on H Street right on the boundary between Chula Vista and unincorporated San Diego County. It's close to the freeway and there's the constant drone of fast-moving traffic in the background. With the rain, the sound is muted and rhythmic, almost like the sound of the ocean at my place.

That's the only romantic illusion. The place is a dump. Reminds me of the apartment Trish lived in with her mother. Could have been built by the same developer. The building is squat, two -storied, flat-roofed. The place is in bad need of a paint job. Asphalt tiles curl like withered leaves exposing the tar paper roof underneath. I wouldn't be surprised if residents in that top floor aren't scurrying around to find pots to catch the leaks.

Jason's apartment is on the ground floor. I pick my way through a courtyard littered with broken bottles and fast -food containers. His door sports an unpainted patch, as if someone kicked it in and nailing up a square of rough plywood was the extent of the repair work. Fits though. Anything else might have spoiled the trashy ambience of the place.

I stop outside the door and listen. First I hear music, both the volume and type of which surprises me. It 's soft jazz, played at a softer level. I would have expected something along the lines of heavy metal played at an ear-splitting decibel.

Then I hear voices-two. Male and female. The man is being gently persuasive. It takes me a second to realize what he 's being persuasive about.

When I do, I put my shoulder to the door and burst through.