"What if you can't find him?" Leo asked. "What if he's run off with her?"

"We've been doing this for a while, Leo. We'll track him down. But I don't want you to hang your hopes on this kid. There's a good chance he doesn't have Annabelle. It's unlikely that this kid is involved in an organized kidnapping ring. Drug dealing, yeah, I've seen that. But not stolen babies. Not organized by kids this age." Although she spoke the truth, Grace knew anything was possible. Still, her words had the calming effect she was looking for.

Oddly calming.

Because if Armand Krispalian didn't have Annabelle Green, who did?

Chris yawned as she slowed in front of Krispalians' house-a well-kept brick row house.

"Nice neighborhood," he said. "I guess baby smuggling pays well."

"Not funny." She cruised to the corner and pulled into a spot. "I have a feeling Krispy lives with his parents. And I'm even more skeptical about his involvement in Annabelle Green's disappearance."

Chris stepped out and closed the car door. "You believe the babysitter? Think Krispy is a good guy?"

"I suspect he's a little mama's boy who preys upon slightly overweight babysitters with low self-esteem. Beyond that, Krispalian doesn't fit the profile of our abductor." She walked up the driveway with Chris. "But I've been wrong before."

"Let's see if you're right on Krispy Kritter."

They held their detective s.h.i.+elds and IDs out as they knocked, and it didn't take long until the door opened to reveal a man who was too old to be Krispy-dark brows, receding hairline, and creases under his dark eyes. He wore a red sweater with rectangular designer gla.s.ses.

"Police?" He looked out into the street behind them. "Is there something wrong here, officers?"

"Sir, we're sorry to bother you so late, but we're looking for Armand Krispalian," Grace said. "Does he live here?"

"Yes, he does, but he's not home. I'm his father, Ara." He turned to someone inside. "It's the police looking for Armand. Ayo." Turning back to Grace, he ushered them in the door. "Come inside, then. The neighbors all want to know your business."

The heels of her shoes tapped on the tile floor of the vestibule, and though Grace got a view of a living room decorated in rich tones of red and gold, the room was dark, with the distant look of a shrine.

"Can I ask why you're looking for him?" the man asked.

"We think he might have some information about a missing child," Chris said.

"A child?" He slapped the air as if waving away a gnat. "My son wouldn't have anything to do with that." He called down the dim hall in a fluid, baroque language.

"Has your son been arrested before, Mr. Krispalian?" Grace asked, though she knew the answer; Chris had checked his arrest record before she picked him up at the office.

"He's been in some mischief in the past, but it was small stuff. Graffiti and what-not."

A woman in velour pants and a matching jacket appeared, and he introduced her as his wife, Nayda. Grace surveyed the woman as the man explained everything in their language. Nayda's dark hair was stylishly short, but one of her front teeth was turned around-an eye-catcher when she smiled.

"Mmm." Nayda frowned, her dark eyes sanguine. "You must be mistaken, officers. Armand would never be involved in such a thing. He's a good boy."

"But we would like to talk with him," Grace said. "Can you tell us where to find him?"

He looked at his wife, who shrugged. "He's out with his friends," she said. "I'm not sure where."

"Out past midnight on a school night, Mrs. Krispalian? Don't you worry about his grades?" Grace asked.

"He's eighteen. A man now." The father seemed offended by their question. "Besides, grades don't matter for Armand. He's going to work in our family business."

"What kind of business is that?" Chris asked.

"A chain of convenience stores." Ara mentioned a name Grace recognized.

"Really?" Grace nodded. "That's quite a business opportunity for such a young man."

"It's what our family does. He'll have his own store as soon as he turns twenty-one."

"Sounds like a sweet deal," Chris said. "We're sorry to bother you so late, but we really do need to speak with your son. Where would we find him right now? Where does he hang?"

The couple locked gazes, sharing a warning to keep mum.

The eyes: That was one language Grace could decipher.

"He's with his friends," Ara Krispalian said. "We don't know where. He's old enough to stand his own ground, you know? Make his own decisions."

"He's eighteen, right?" Grace faced Nayda. "I admire your ability to let go. My son, he's just twelve, and already I get a little misty thinking of the day when he's going to leave the house."

Nayda nodded, her face softening. "Our children leave our houses, but never our hearts."

"You know, that's a beautiful expression," Grace said. "I'd like to remember that, but I have a mind like a sieve." She looked around the vestibule. "Do you think you could write it down for me?"

"Of course." While Nayda disappeared down the hall, Chris asked Mr. Krispalian if he had any other children.

"Four daughters. All older. Armand is the baby."

"Here you go." Nayda handed Grace a folded slip of paper.

Without opening it, Grace thanked her and turned toward the door.

"Sorry to disturb you so late at night," Grace told them.

After a round of polite good-byes, Grace and Chris were stepping outside into the cold, making their way back to the car.

"What was all that about?" Chris asked as they walked to Grace's car. "Of course he's in his mother's heart; he hasn't moved out of the house yet."

"It was a bonding moment." Grace unfolded the sheet of paper, her eyes adjusting to the light of the streetlamp. "A mother-to-mother thing. And, yeah, it worked."

"Say what?"

"She says we should look for him in the field house at the elementary school. The one by Kendall Park."

"Okay." Chris nodded, looking a little impressed. "The mother s.h.i.+p has spoken."

Kendall Park wasn't much more than a treed lot bisected by asphalt paths.

"His mother said to check the field house." Grace strained to look closer at the school grounds. A play structure, bike racks, a parking lot where bald security lights s.h.i.+ned in pools on the blacktop. "Where the h.e.l.l is that?"

The school, tucked into a suburban neighborhood, was probably a choice spot for delinquents to hang, being secluded and away from cars and pedestrian traffic.

"Let's take a look," Chris said.

Grace had Chris reach into the console for a flashlight. Her gun, as always, was securely holstered at her waist. She had never used it on anything besides the target at the range, and she hoped she would never have to.

But in dark, unfamiliar situations like this, she was glad to be working with a pistol and a partner.

The snow had stopped and the ground was frozen underfoot, but the cold cut through her as soon as she stepped out of the car. That was the way it went whenever she worked overtime; her resistance got worn down.

"It's cold out here," she said. "Not really party atmosphere."

"Do you remember what it's like to be eighteen?" Chris paused beside a tall tree, staring past the handball walls and swings. "All you need for a party is a can of beer." He pointed to the far end of the asphalt playground. "See over there? That looks like the field house."

They decided not to use the flashlight, not wanting to scare them off. Under the cover of darkness, they approached the small outbuilding. The smell of burnt marijuana mixed in the air with low voices.

"Sounds like our guys," Chris said as they approached.

The young men were huddled together on one side of the field house. They sat on the ground in a line, their backs against the stone building, probably using it to stay out of the wind.

No one reacted as Grace and Chris got close. At least they're not scrambling, Grace thought. She was in no mood to get into a chase.

"Hey, guys. Got a little party going on. What's in the cans?" Chris asked.

"c.o.ke."

"Really? You're out here in the cold drinking soda, when you could do that in Mommy's bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"What are you, a cop?" someone asked.

"As a matter of fact, we're detectives. So what are you really drinking?"

"Just a little beer, officer," one of the guys said. "We're not hurting anybody and we'll clean up when we go. We don't want any trouble."

Chris turned the flashlight on and panned over their faces.

Boys, Grace thought. Some of them weren't much older than Matt.

"Because you had the b.a.l.l.s not to run, we're going to let you keep your beer, as long as you cooperate." Chris ran the flashlight beam over their faces again, though the details were masked by hoods and watch caps and baseball hats. "Which one of you is Krispy?"

Four of the guys turned toward the kid on one end.

The light shone on a thin kid in a plaid jacket with a navy hood over his head. "Looks like you're coming with us. Put your beer on the ground and step over here, Krispy."

"Aw, man," Krispy protested, though he placed the paper sack on the ground and rose. A whole head taller than Grace.

Grace held the flashlight as Chris had the kid step around the side of the field house, where he checked him for weapons.

"Am I under arrest?" Krispy asked. "Are you going to cuff me?"

"Not if you come willingly," Chris said. He introduced himself and Grace, and gave Krispy a chance to look over their IDs by the light of the flashlight. They didn't want to terrorize the kid.

"We need to talk with you down at the precinct," Grace said.

"For underage drinking?" Krispy asked. "That's bulls.h.i.+t."

"This is about something else," Chris said. "Are you going to man up and cooperate? We can all be nice about it, unless you want to be a hard-a.s.s about it."

Krispy paused, weighing his options. Since he was over sixteen, they could take him in without parental consent, and Grace suspected that Krispy knew that.

"Yeah, whatever," Krispy muttered. "Let's go already."

Although Armand Krispalian behaved like a model prisoner on the way to the precinct, once they got him into an interrogation room, he clammed up.

In his dark brow and the lean line of his chin, Grace saw defiance and fear. She didn't blame him for either; she wouldn't want to be in his shoes, dragged away from the smoky cool of a party to be questioned by police under a buzzing fluorescent light.

"I don't know, Krispy." Grace didn't mask her concern. "You're still on probation, and we could write you up for underage drinking. But that would get you in a snag with your probation officer, wouldn't it?"

"Not to mention that aroma circling your friends out there at the field house," Chris said. "Smelled like weed to me. I guess we could also go back and bust up the whole party, write up all your friends."

Armand let his head drop back on his shoulders, a gesture of resignation. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell us about your new business venture, Armand," Grace said. "Your big moneymaker."

He groaned. "It's just about getting a couple of kids some beers, you know?"

Grace bit her lips together. This wasn't what they were looking for, but whatever. "Go on."

The kid cupped his face in his hands, his dark eyes round with worry. "What I want to know is, how did you find out? Did my father notice stuff missing?"

"Tell us your side of the story," Chris said.

"It's just a way to make some cash. I buy a few cases of beer from my father's store. I just scan it out under my father's register code, and I pay for it. That's all legit. Then I sell it to the guys at the park, only at a higher price since they're all underage."

"You're eighteen years old," Chris said. "You're underage, too."

He rolled his eyes. "When my old man was my age, eighteen used to be legal in New York."

"And this all works because you've got an inside connection with the family stores. At least for beer, right?"

Krispy shrugged. "Beer is enough. It gets you buzzed as good as anything else."

"And that's it?" Chris spread his arms wide. "You've got nothing else to tell us."

"You can't pin the weed on me, man. I'm not a drug dealer."

Chris leaned back in the seat and scrutinized the kid. "What can you tell us about selling babies on the black market?"

Krispy's brows came together and he grinned. "For real? I don't know what you're talking about."