CHAPTER 1

"Have you located the salon yet, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice inquired. "It's not a large establishment, but you should find it right between the Asian grocery store on the corner and one of those dreadful tourist shops."

"'Angel Nails'?" From his rooftop perch across the street, Reese pronounced the name of the salon as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "That's where our Number works?" Despite the gloom of the overcast skies, he didn't need binoculars to read the garish red script that spelled out the name of their latest number's workplace. "I'll blend right in," he muttered.

Reese's employer didn't reply; his attention had shifted to his computer, fingers tapping away at the keyboard as always. On his screen was a photo of a young Asian woman with straight dark hair and a tired expression, labelled with the improbable name "Shelly June Chan." Alongside it, Finch had just pulled up a photo of a young Hispanic woman—deceased—whose Social Security Number she was using. "Interesting," Finch murmured.

"Finch? You still there?"

The voice in his ear jolted him back to the non-digital world. "What was that, Mr. Reese? I wasn't quite listening."

"Finch, our Number works at a nail salon. Any ideas on how I'm supposed to get in there? I'm not exactly part of their regular clientele." Even as Reese watched, yet another woman in smart business attire and high heels pulled open the glass door of the salon, as if to emphasize his point.

"Well, I had hoped you might be due for a pedicure, Mr. Reese," Finch quipped, and Reese detected a mischievous smile in his tone.

"Oh, well I was hoping you might need one," Reese countered promptly. "Really, though, Finch—we may need to call in some back-up."

"You mean . . . a female?" Finch ventured.

"More or less what I had in mind," Reese replied, "unless Bear would like a little more pampering than usual."

Back in the library, Finch turned to the dog. "What do you think, Bear? Would you like to get your nails done properly for a change?"

Bear's ears perked up at the sound of his name, but they quickly retracted again at the mention of nails. Getting his nails clipped was an experience he preferred to avoid, even if it meant the excitement of an outing in the car.

"It appears that Bear would prefer to decline the opportunity, Mr. Reese," Finch said. After a pause, he suggested, "Let's wait until we see where our number goes for lunch; perhaps that will help us determine whether the threat lies within her workplace or outside of it."

"Good. I'll keep eyes on her," Reese said.

And he did, into the early afternoon. Nothing happened. At first he expected that sooner or later she'd be taking her lunch, or that she'd at least step out for a break, but she never left the building.

In spite of his training, Reese began to feel vaguely irritated by the rumbling in his stomach. He hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast—only a cup of coffee grabbed from a street vendor when their number had disappeared into the back of the shop for a couple of minutes. But he didn't dare step away from his post, since anything could happen while he was gone.

Clouds gathered above him as the day wore on, but they were always in motion, whisking across the sky as if impatient to move on. Yet for all their hurrying the sky remained an unbroken blanket of stormy gray, providing a dreary backdrop for Reese's tedious vigil. For a little while, a light rain began to fall, but thankfully it didn't settle in. Reese wrapped his damp coat tighter around him, and appreciated that his binoculars and camera were water-resistant.

Just as monotonous as the weather were the routines of the workers that he watched through the salon's front window. He could see four or five of them, including their Number, but he estimated that there were eight to ten total, based on the size of the shop. All of them were petite Asian women, though he couldn't quite guess their nationality without a better view of their faces.

That was because the women spent most of their time sitting on low stools or even kneeling, hunched over their clients' hands and feet: clipping, filing, buffing, polishing. After each client left, the manicurist scarcely had enough time to spray down her tools and wipe off the vinyl chair before another client would arrive. Then she would repeat the same strange rituals all over again.

From time to time, a middle-aged Asian man stalked into view—Korean, Reese guessed, based on his features—his arms folded and his expression dour. He seemed to be policing his employees more than supervising them. A change came over the salon workers whenever he entered the room: shoulders tensed, eyes darted up nervously to check for his approval, and the pace of work quickened.

Reese didn't trust any man who had that effect on his subordinates, and pegged him as a possible threat. Eyes narrowing, he stashed his binoculars and camera. He had watched long enough. It was time to pay Angel Nails a visit.