The twelfth floor was laid out identically to the eighth, except that the utility room didn't seem as well stocked. I grabbed a dust rag and a vacuum cleaner, found an electrical outlet in the corridor, and began to vacuum my way toward Laura Huckaby's room. The carpet was an extravagant meadow of geometric shapes, triangles overlapping in a bright path of high-low gold and green. Vacuuming is always restful: slow, repetitive motion accompanied by a low groaning noise and that satisfying snap when something really good gets sucked up. Never had the wall-to-wall carpet been so thoroughly cleaned. I was working up a sweat, but the effort did permit me to loiter at will.

At 7:36 I heard the elevator ping and a room service waitcreature appeared with a dinner tray. He headed toward 1236; the tray balanced comfortably at shoulder height, he knocked on her door. I vacuumed in that direction, managing to get a glimpse of her when she let him in. She was barefoot and looking bulky in a hotel robe with a nightie hanging down below. The loungewear suggested she was in for the night, which was good from my perspective. The waiter emerged moments later. He passed me without remark and disappeared into the elevator without acknowledging my existence. On the off chance that Laura would have a visitor or head out to meet someone, I stuck to my surveillance.

When I tired of vacuuming, I took out my dust rag and got down on my hands and knees, dusting baseboards that apparently hadn't been touched for years. Sometimes it's really tough to picture the boy detectives doing this. Periodically, I tilted my head against Laura Huckaby's door without hearing a thing. Maybe if I barked and scratched, she'd let me in. Other hotel guests came and went at intervals, but no one paid me the slightest attention.

Here's what I've learned about being a maid: People seldom look you in the eye. Occasionally someone's gaze might accidentally glance off your face, but based on the interaction, no one could identify you later in a lineup. Good news for me, although even in Texas I don't think impersonating a maid would be classified as a crime.

At 8:15 I returned the vacuum cleaner to the linen room and armed myself with a supply of fresh towels. I returned to 1236 and knocked, calling out "Housekeeping" in clear, bell-like tones. Worked like a charm. Moments later, Laura Huckaby opened the door a crack with the chain in place. "Yes?"

Without eye makeup, her hazel eyes seemed soft and pale. Her complexion was made ruddy by the faint rash of freckles previously masked by foundation. She also had a dimple in her chin I hadn't noticed earlier.

I directed my comment to the doorknob so I wouldn't seem uppity. "I'm here to turn the bed down."

"This hotel offers turn-down service?" She sounded appropriately startled, as if the idea were ludicrous.

"Yes, ma'am."

She paused and then shrugged. "Just a minute," she said. She closed the door. There was a delay of some minutes and then she released the chain and stepped aside to let me enter.

I was interested to realize how much I could take in through my peripheral vision. How vain could she be? I could have sworn she'd paused to put on her makeup again. The tangled auburn hair had been freshly washed and still clung to her head. Warm, damp, shampoo-scented air wafted from the bathroom. I set the clean towels on the counter near the sink and then moved into the bedroom area and closed the drapes. The television set was turned on with the sound turned down. She'd tossed her room key on the desk. Immediately, I began to scheme to get my hands on it. I could see from the disarray that she'd been lying on the bed with the telephone pulled close. Maybe she'd received the call she'd been waiting for. There was no sign of the duffel bag as far as I could see.

She took a seat at the desk with her magazine. She crossed her legs, and I caught just a flash of bare skin. Her right ankle and shin and all the way up to her knee was a sooty mass of old bruises, turning green at the edge. Had her fifty-some companion been beating the shit out of her? It would certainly explain her icy treatment of him and her obsession with her appearance. Her dinner tray still sat on the desk in front of her, a crumpled white cloth napkin tossed carelessly across the dirty plates. Whatever she'd ordered, she hadn't eaten much. Though it was ostensibly my job, she seemed embarrassed to have me in the room, which actually worked to my advantage. She ignored me for the most part, though she would flick me an occasional self-conscious look. I was beginning to enjoy my invisibility. I could observe her at close range without any pesky personal exchanges. Was that the shadow of a bruise on the right side of her jaw, or was I imagining things? What kind of guy was she with? From all reports, he'd pounded Ray Rawson to a pulp, so he might have pounded her, too.