Chapter 1

The sign on the door said "CROSS."

It described the man standing in front of it.

The office door always stuck in the wintertime. Normally this wasn't something worth getting mad about, but there was a new tenant across the hall, and...

"Hey, Billy-boy!" The voice from behind dripped with derisive friendliness.

"My name is William." He'd only made the correction every day this week...
"Sure, Billy, Willy, whatever. So you're here bright and early for another hard day's nap?"

William Cross' fist clenched tighter around the doorknob, imagining it was the other man's neck...
The door popped open with a wooden grunt.

"So, Cross, do you actually have a desk in there, or just a couch?"
As if Will hadn't heard every lame joke about the way he worked a hundred times before.
"So, Bob, did Miss Johnson ever find that locket?"
Bob got suddenly sheepish. "Uh, yeah."
"Behind the piano, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you'll be paying me now."
"Soon as Miss Johnson pays me."

Will retreated into his office. "Yeah."
Bob was suddenly in the doorway, joviality gone for the first time. He looked a little weirded out. "Hey man, doesn't it bother you that you dream about other people's stuff?"
Will shrugged. "Not as long as it pays the bills."
"Well, it gives me the creeps. --Oh, hey, some dame was looking for you earlier."

Dame? Who was the weird one here? "Did you get a name?"
"Nah, she just said she'd try back later."
"Thanks."
"Anyway, have a good day." Bob's next words seemed uncomfortable, like a straight man wishing a gay friend good luck on a date. "Pleasant dreams."

It wasn't exactly respect, but it would do. "Thanks."

Bob retreated. The door groaned shut under the weight of Will's shoulder.

A woman, looking for him? Definitely not a social call. A fellow professional? No, the whole building would have been abuzz with such news, so it couldn't be that; it had to be a client.

Will didn't generally get clients. Almost all of his work was for other private investigators. He liked it better when he didn't have to meet anyone. At least, not in the real world -- it made seeing them in Dream a little weird.

In fact, it had been so long since someone outside the business had stopped by that he wasn't sure he'd remember how to talk. Especially to a woman.
He'd probably just refer her to somebody. Maybe Bob.
Then again, if he didn't entertain the occasional conversation with a woman -- not counting Fran at the supermarket and the receptionist in Dale Harvey's building and the widow Fredrickson in his apartment building -- he might become completely dysfunctional around them. And while he didn't have any room in his life for such diversions at present, he'd been getting the itch again. Talking to a client -- safe, neutral, professional -- it would be good practice.
But what if she was attractive? He didn't need that.
Maybe he'd just wait and see.

No sense dwelling on it. There was work to do.

Papers covered the desk -- neat stacks.
Nine inches of bills paid. They'd get shoeboxed, just as soon as he bought another pair of shoes.
An inch of new bills. Six inches of credit card offers.
Two inches of cases Closed Pending Payment.
Two thin manila folders of Open Cases, nestled next to the phone. One of which now needed to be moved.

Will picked up the other folder.

From Cawthorne Investigations across town. Alec Cawthorne always paid up front. Will should have worked Cawthorne's case before Bob's, but for some reason he thought he should give his new neighbor a break.

Well, Cawthorne's had just come by messenger yesterday. If Will got right to work on it, he'd probably come up with something today.

There was no chair behind the desk -- he'd fallen asleep one too many times in it, always waking up with a stiff neck. The couch beckoned.

Eight feet long. Four cushions. Pillowed armrests. Synthetic suede fabric. Scotchguard. The garish floral pattern had made it cheap. Will solved most of his cases on it.

He sat down on the left-middle cushion, skimming through the pages in the file. Ladies' wedding ring. First noticed missing two days ago. Connie Carlisle, husband Drew. Snapshot from a family dinner. Probably Thanksgiving. Both a little heavy, but he could see they'd both been good-looking in their youth. Smartly but not extravagantly dressed. Home address. Only removed the ring to cook and clean house. The ring. Description: size 7, simple band, one-caret brilliant cut center stone, soldered wrap with a pair of fifth-caret stones...

Will put the file down. More details wouldn't help. It was all about the connection. Things were easy to find if someone cared about them enough.

Pivot. Feet up. Head back. Eyes closed.

Time for a nap.

Will took deep breaths, each one slower than the last. He focused on his heartbeat, letting its rhythm soothe him. The world faded.

And then it refocused. Will was in Dream.

He's in front of the Carlisle house. Numbers painted on the curb.
Inside. Connie, on the couch, watching... a home improvement show. She can't see him.

Will shifts.

He sees her hand. Up close. No ring.
Blinks.
A memory. The ring. On her hand. Glowing bright, making everything around darken by comparison.
More memory. Ring tugged off. Set down on tile. Kitchen.

Will shifts.
He's in the kitchen. He peers through the sink. The trap is dark. If the ring was here he would see it glow -- he would sense it.

Jewelry box? Dark. The whole house dark. The ring is not here.

So this would not be quite the cakewalk. Will would actually have to work.