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but practicality should never be dull! A lightweight woolen houndstooth blazer in deep raspberry and black, paired with stretch-infused Italian wool black pants and a creamy shell, completed the look. I would tote my heels along, since the snowy landscape necessitated boots.

Thankful for a reserved parking space in an area of town where parking is ferociously contested, I arrived at the office and emptied the mailbox in the vestibule. It was the usual junk. My personal and professional mail goes to a rented box at a private service center, for the sake of both security and convenience. Jimmying a lobby box requires very little effort, and the service center can sign for items which might otherwise be left in the lobby.

I unlocked the door and disabled the alarm that Spider installed when we worked together on the Johnson case last year. After stripping off my winter outer garments and boots, I powered up the desktop computer and slipped into my heels.

How could I contact Karl Jorgensen without setting off his alarms? I had his presumed email address and phone number. I considered how Gmail automatically sent most unsolicited stuff to my Spam folder, where it accumulated until it aged enough to be deleted. I could set up a fake email ID and use it to send a message that looked like it was junk mail, which Karl would ignore or delete. If I didnā€™t get an undeliverable response, I would assume it went through and that Karlā€™s email account was still active.

Spiderā€™s warnings caused me to wonder if Hank/Karl might be savvy enough to trace an email to the server that sent it. Not wanting to risk it, I decided to use the downtown Marriottā€™s business center. After printing an obnoxious email from my Spam folder, I suited up to go outside, and headed for the hotel. Prior to setting up my own shop, when I still worked for Jake Waterman, I caught a thieving hotel employee in the act and saved the managerā€™s job. Glen was happy to grant me access.

First, I set up a Hotmail account for user RussianWomenOnline and created an email with the subject Date_ Russian _Women. The body of the email invited Karl to click a link and guarantee his dating happiness. In case he tried it, I included the link from my printed spam. With a press of the Send button, off it went into the ether.

I waited at the computer for ten minutes. No undeliverable message came back. Odds were that Karlā€™s email was still in service.

After that, Glen and I shared a cup of coffee and some laughs over my undercover stint as a hotel maid. Someone was stealing from guest rooms and he suspected either room service or meal service. Once I understood the cleaning routine, I came in after midnight, attached small video cameras to the underside of each laundry cart and collected the data on a hidden laptop. Itā€™s amazing what an enterprising thief can hide under a bundle of dirty sheets and towels!

It occurred to me that Glen might also be able to assist me by making a phone call to Karl. If the hotelā€™s number appeared on Karlā€™s display, there was nothing to link to me. We went to the managerā€™s office, where I coached Glen in what I needed him to say. He put his office phone on speaker and punched in the number, while I stood by with my cellphoneā€™s recording feature activated.

ā€œYes?ā€ a male voice spoke.

ā€œHello,ā€ Glen said. ā€œThis is the manager of the downtown Milwaukee Marriott. I believe I may have a personal item of yours, a planner. Iā€™m sorry to say it went through the laundry, so the phone number is not too clear, nor is the name. Is this Mr., uh, Jefferson?ā€

ā€œNo. I havenā€™t been near Milwaukee or stayed at a Marriott, and my name isnā€™t Jefferson.ā€ The voice was clear and clipped, with a no-nonsense tone.

ā€œWell, please excuse the call. Iā€™m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. ā€¦ā€

He let it hang there, while I hoped against hope that the person on the other end would answer ā€˜Jorgensen.ā€™ Instead, we heard a click and the call disconnected. I stopped the recording.

ā€œDoes that help any, Angie?ā€ Glen asked.

ā€œIā€™m not sure. At least I have the voice. Iā€™ll play it for someone who knows Jorgensen.ā€ I extended my hand. ā€œThanks so much. I owe you one.ā€

ā€œGlad to help.ā€ He pumped my hand a couple of times. ā€œLet me know the outcome, would you? Iā€™m dying of curiosity.ā€

As I headed to the parking ramp, Bobbie texted me that he was on the road to Stevens Point with the fingerprint device. Ordinarily, I would be concerned about his interrupting Spiderā€™s much-needed rest to pick it up, but Spider labeled himself as someone who needed little sleep.

The mundane realities of life needed attention. I returned to my condo to run the vacuum and do a load or two of laundry. As I worked, I pondered what seemed to be the frayed ends of this case.

A memory of Sister Mary Iranaeus, my sixth grade teacher, rose before me as I pushed the vacuum. Sisterā€”or Sā€™ter, as we would sayā€”brought a beautiful tapestry to class one day and placed it on an easel. ā€œWhat do you see?ā€ she asked, and we detailed the lovely colors and images. Then she flipped it over. The back was a mass of threads and knots, the picture hard to discern. ā€œNever forget that in this earthly life, we see the back, but the Master is weaving an exquisite world, which we will only view from heaven.ā€

The Wagner case was like that, almost unrecognizableā€”but I had to believe there was a pattern that would emerge, that the picture would resolve and Marcy would, after five long years, finally get resolution.

My cleaner and friend, Lela (donā€™t ever call her a cleaning lady!) had finally begun to get regular acting work, and regretfully resigned her weekly gig for me. I needed to find a replacement, but

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