I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF. I GO back to my vantage point above the warehouse. It's midafternoon. There are still cars and trucks coming and going from the parking lot. Inactivity chafes. Williams hasn 't called, which means he has nothing for me from Ortiz. My first plan-to break into the warehouse-seems the most logical.

I settle down to watch and wait, something I should be used to in my line of work. Stakeouts are part of the bounty -hunting business.

Except I usually have David to help pass the time.

I'm alone here and this is very personal.

I spend some time leafing through the Eternal Youth brochure. Two things jump out: the dramatic results the cream seems to have wrought and the price for those results. Burke is getting two hundred fifty dollars for a twelve-ounce jar . . . a month's supply.

Yikes.

I throw the brochure aside and start to pick apart what Burke said to me in the restaurant. She mentioned wishing she'd had more time.

More time to what?

And what "curves" did life throw her? Culebra's appearance? He must have recognized her. How? I certainly didn't. Was the entire story he told me about going out of town a lie? Was he here all the time?

Nothing makes sense.

The only thing that does is the threat against Culebra and Frey. No riddles there.

It's a fucking long wait.

It isn't until midnight that the place is finally quiet. By now, my skin is twitching with impatience. I watch as the last car pulls out of the lot.

If there's a night watchman, he didn't drive a car to work. I sprint down the steep bank and head for the back of the warehouse.

I had plenty of time to decide how I'd break in. The building is about three stories high. The only windows are right below the roofline.

They are the old-fashioned, pull-down windows, so there are no ledges. I circle the building twice before I find one that looks like it isn 't completely shut tight. I'd rather not damage anything, which is why I'm not smashing the door and going in through the front.

I use my shimmying skills for the second time today. It's really rather fun. Like having invisible suckers on the palms of your hands. It's all upper body, my feet seek purchase like a rock climber's, but it's more pull than push. Idly, I wonder what I look like. Hope it's not a giant spider.

I hang down from the roof and work at the window. It groans and gives way and I slide inside. These vamp powers are becoming second nature and once I accepted what I am, they seemed to grow stronger. Not entirely unpleasant.

There's a catwalk that runs along under the windows. I crouch here, waiting for any indication that I've tripped a security circuit. I don't hear the whir of cameras or see the glowing beam of a motion detector. There are no lights on, but I can see to the factory floor thirty feet below. No guards come looking. After a moment, I step off the ledge and land on my feet next to the assembly line.

No jolt, no shock. I pat at my hair. Not a strand out of place.

Cool.

The factory floor looks like any other mechanized assembly line. Ingredients are measured and combined in big stainless -steel pots at one end and the finished jars of cream emerge from the other. The conveyor belt is still but all the components are lined up and in varying stages of completion as if a switch was hit at the end of the day and the line stopped. I walk the length of it, picking up jars, sniffing, looking for-I'm not sure what I'm looking for-but nothing jumps out at me. I take one of the finished jars and open it. The contents are a pale pink in color and heavily perfumed. Under it all, though, I detect something that smells slightly of raw meat. It makes me draw back in disgust. I close the jar and slip it into the pocket of my jacket.

At the end of the factory, there are two doors. Both locked. I'm prepared. I fish my lock picks out of another jacket pocket and go to work.

I remember from this afternoon that there was a door at the end of the corridor leading from the reception area. I'm assuming that door opened into the factory or to stairs leading from it. The first door I open, though, is a locker room and employee lounge area.

The other is the one I'm looking for. It opens to reveal a flight of stairs. At the top, the door leading into the corridor I spied this afternoon. On each side of that corridor are office spaces, six of them, all with doors now closed. My task is simplified, though, by the little brass plaques on each. I head right for the one that says "Simone Tremaine, President."

It takes me about twenty seconds to pick the lock. I slip inside. The office space is big, about twenty by twenty, but not as luxuriously furnished as I would have expected. There's a wooden desk and chair, a row of wooden file cabinets, a leather couch and glass-topped coffee table and two leather visitor's chairs.

The desktop is clear. Nothing on it, not a blotter or a telephone. The desk drawers are locked but yield to a little persuasion. That's all they yield. The only things I find are telephone logs. A quick perusal tells me business is brisk. Calls from area codes across the country.

Paper-clipped together on the inside cover are the most recent. I flip through the stack. One customer has called three times in the last two days. Must be desperate for her miracle makeover. I replace the stack as I found it.

In another drawer, web-generated order forms. Lots of them. Eternal Youth has struck a chord with middle-aged women in a big way.

No wonder I saw so many trucks going in and out. Must be preparing for the big launch the newspaper spoke of.

Now what?

The file cabinets.

Again, everything is locked. There are six cabinets, none labeled on the front so I have no choice but to start at one end and jimmy each open. As is usually the case, the last cabinet is the one I want. Personnel files.

One file is marked Personal. When I open it, I find info about Simone Tremaine. There isn 't much-insurance forms, utility bills for an address in Coronado, an out-of-state telephone number printed on a piece of company letterhead. I memorize the address and number and return the file to the cabinet.

Then another file catches my eye.

Test Subjects.

It's thick. I take it to the couch and get comfortable.

There must be one hundred cases. I go through each one. All include remarkable before -and-after pictures as well as testimonials.

They're from local women in all walks of life-including some with PhDs and medical licenses. Women in their fifties and sixties look thirty again. With no adverse side effects reported. In fact, just the opposite, women report renewed vigor and increased libido. A few add that their figures are fuller, their hair more lustrous and their minds sharper. They call the cream miraculous.

I pull the jar out of my pocket and look at it. Miraculous, indeed, if it's true. In fact, if I were still human, I'd be tempted to try the stuff.

No wonder Gloria wants to hook her wagon to this star. Besides the obvious, Burke would be richer than God in a very short time if the product lives up to its press. Too bad she won't live long enough to enjoy it.

I return the folder and walk my fingers through the other tabs. I'd like to find a formula to take to Williams. He could duplicate it and see if there's magic involved. I don't find one so I'll have to do the next best thing. I'll give him the jar I took and let him analyze the product itself.

I relock the cabinets and offices and head back into the factory. I leap up to the catwalk, slip out of the window and secure it behind me while I cling to the wall outside. Then I let go and drop to earth.

Next stop: that address across the bay in Coronado.

I'm halfway up the bank to my car when my cell phone rings.

"Anna Strong."

"Anna, it's Williams. Where are you?"

"In National City. Why?"

"Meet me downtown, the end of the Navy Pier. Another body turned up, and if you get here quick enough, we can check it out before the police."

He disconnects before I can object. I glance at my watch. The navy pier isn't too far out of my way. I'll give him five minutes. That's it.

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