Kristen Starr had prescription number 378030. It was for Libinol-- whatever that was, probably some kind of screwed-up diet pill--and it had been filled five months ago. It had been delivered from Grove Pharmacy on Seventh Avenue to here, 217 West Eleventh Street. The address was pasted on a sticker on the back. Hmmm, he thought. After she left, rather than transferring the prescription, what if they just had subsequent refills delivered to some other address? There's a long shot that Grove Pharmacy might have a new address for the prescription number. Okay, it would be a very long shot, but still . . . Unless, of course, her new address had been the Dorian Institute. In that case, the prescription would undoubtedly have been discontinued once she became a patient. He reached for his cell phone to call the drugstore. Shit, I forgot it! Damn hangover. He walked back into the living room and stared at Kristen's phone. If it was still working, he could call Grove Pharmacy and-- No, idiot, that would wipe out any number stored in the redial function. Without a cell, the best thing to do is just go over there and check with the pharmacist in person. He settled yoga-style onto the hardwood floor next to the phone and stared at it. What if the line is already disconnected? Why did whoever cleaned this place out leave it here? The phone, of all things. It's-- It rang. He jumped a foot off the floor, and then stared at it. A series of reasons flashed through his mind: 1)They know I'm here and they're going to warn me again to back off. 2)They know I'm here and the last incoming call here was from a number they don't want me to know about. I pick this up and I wipe out any chance of ever finding out what it was. Don't answer it. This phone call is not intended to be helpful. Not picking up the phone was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he was determined to be disciplined. He counted eleven rings and then he couldn't take it anymore and reached for the receiver. It stopped. "Thank God." His hand froze in midair. The timing had been a split- second salvation. All right, he thought, time to find out if I just totally screwed up. Time to dial. He got his pen and notebook poised and then lifted the black receiver. He knew from the message on her machine yesterday that somebody had called her just before he got there. Or maybe whoever came and cleaned out her apartment had received a phone call while they were here. Possibly from whoever sent them. A checkup call. Who knew? But give it a shot. He hit the code. A mechanical voice came on immediately: "Your last call was from area code 212, number 555-3935. If you would like for me to connect you, please push--" "Go for it," he said aloud, scribbling down the number and then following the instruction. At that moment somebody's cell phone began to ring just outside the front door. "Oh shit." It was just too big a coincidence.