I looked back. The guy had reappeared and the twenty I'd left in the slot was gone. He had the rental form with him, but he held it behind his back, apparently uneasy about letting go of it. I waited until his face was on a plane with mine and tried asking him some easy questions, just to get him in the mood. This is called private-eye foreplay. "How's this done? Someone comes in and pays the fee for the coming year?"

"Something like that. It can also be done by mail. We put a notice in the box when the annual fee comes up."

"They pay in cash?"

"Or personal check. Either way."

"So you might never actually see the person renting the box?"

"Most of them we don't see. We don't care who they are as long as they pay the money when it's due. I notice some renters have fancy stationery done up, acting like this is their corporate office with individual suites. It's a laugh, but it's really all the same to us."

"I'll bet. Can you push the form through the slot so I can see it better? This is a legitimate investigation. I'm really serious about that."

"Nope. I don't want you touching it. You can look for thirty seconds, but that's the best I can do."

"Great." What kind of world is this-you bribe a guy with twenty bucks and he still has scruples?

He held the card up on his side, angled so I could see it. He was checking his watch, counting off the seconds. Big deal. Little did this fellow know that as a kid my prime talent was the game played at birthday parties wherein the mother of the birthday girl put a number of articles on a tray, which she then covered with a towel. All the little partygoers clustered around. Mrs. Mom would lift the towel for thirty seconds, during which we were allowed to look, committing all the items to memory. I always won this game, primarily because it was always the same old stuff. A bobby pin, a spoon, a Q-tip, a cotton ball. I would use my thirty seconds to make note of any new or unexpected object. The only sad part of this contest was the prize itself, usually a plastic jar full of bubble syrup with the blower inside.

The rental form was a no-brainer and I assimilated the information in the first two seconds. The signature on the bottom line appeared to be Dow's, but he hadn't written in the data on the lines above. The printing was Leila's, complete with the angled t's and puffy i's. Well, well, well.

I said, "One more tiny thing. Would you spit on your finger and run it across the signature?"

"Why?"

This guy was worse than a four-year-old. "Because I'm wondering if it was done with a pen or a copier."

Frowning, he licked his index finger and rubbed the signature. No ink smear. He said, "Hnh."

"What's your name?"

"Ed."

"Well, Ed. I appreciate your help. Thanks so much."

I returned to my car and sat for a minute, considering the implications. Working backward, I had to conclude that Leila'd intercepted the rental renewal notice when it arrived with its request for the annual fee. Crystal had told me the Mid-City Bank statements were routed to the P.O. box. Very likely Leila had notified the bank, perhaps typing the request on a sheet of Pacific Meadows letterhead, forging Purcell's signature or affixing a photocopy, and asking that the statements for that account be mailed to 505. I let my gaze stray across the store front, thinking how easily she could have stopped by the Mail More when she was up from school.

I started my car, backed out of the parking place, and headed for the exit. When I reached the street, I realized the Laguna Plaza branch of the Mid-City Bank was located on the opposite corner. Even from this distance, I could see the ATM she'd used to drain the account. All she really needed was the bank card and pin number for the account, which Dow probably left in his desk at home.

True to my word, when I got back to the office, I put a call through to Jonah.

"Lieutenant Robb."

"This is Kinsey. If you don't scrutinize my methods, I'll tell you what I found out. I swear I didn't mess with anything. I left it all in place."

"I'll bite."

I explained my trip to the Mail More, leaning heavily on Leila's behavior while glossing over mine.

Jonah didn't say much, but I could tell he was taking notes. "You better give me the location of the P.O. box."

"The Mail More at Laguna Plaza. The number's 505."

"I'll check it out," he said. "Devious."

I said, "Very," on the assumption he was talking about her.

"Any idea where she is now?"