"I'm the wife," came the cheerful reply. "Sandy Gartner. Sandra Stillman Gartner, MD, if you're taking notes, which would be a neat trick, given your load. Just keep on going. John's all set up for you."

Nodding at the shape, which by now had a.s.sumed an elegant slimness, Lester marched on, disappearing into the dark hallway beyond.

At the end, as promised, he found another room, lower-ceilinged and slightly darkened by broad wooden blinds that still allowed for the view, along with a man-tall, patrician, and lean like his wife-who rose from an imposing cherrywood desk and crossed the floor to relieve him of his box.

"Agent Spinney?" he echoed his daughter, placing the box on a corner of the table and shaking hands. "I'm John Leppman. Delighted to meet you."

Spinney looked around quickly. The wood motif of the blinds was carried throughout the room, including the ceiling and a parquet floor, making the half-hidden wall of gla.s.s an anomaly in what would otherwise have been a good Hollywood stand-in for an ancient, manly British lord's study.

"Wow," he said.

His host laughed. "Yeah-a little over the top. Have a seat. I think I heard Wendy offer you a drink already."

"Yes, sir."

"John, please." Leppman indicated a chair next to his own, both of which faced a bank of oversized computer screens, hard drives, printers, and a.s.sorted other paraphernalia. Leppman set about removing Lester's paltry equipment and connecting it to his own, speaking as he did so.

"I gather Tim Giordi steered you my way. Terrific guy."

"Actually, it was Chief Giordi and my boss, Joe Gunther," Lester admitted.

"Right. Gunther." Leppman nodded as he worked. "Famous name. Good to work for?"

"The best."

Leppman laughed. "There are no recorders running, Agent Spinney."

Lester protested, "No, no. Really. And call me Lester, or Les. Doesn't matter."

John Leppman quickly finished up and settled into the seat beside Lester's, making the latter feel as though the room should now take flight toward some galaxy far, far away.

In tune with the metaphor, their captain rapidly began typing commands onto the keyboard before him, still speaking. "I guess you know by now that I do this a lot for the police," he said, his eyes on one of the screens. "Locals, state, even the odd fed, now and then."

"So I heard," Les commented. "I might have guessed, too, from the way your wife and daughter introduced themselves."

Leppman laughed. "Yeah. Cops are in here all the time. This has become a bit of a pa.s.sion, ever since I realized you guys didn't have the equipment or the money to compete with the bad guys out there."

Lester simply nodded.

"Not to mention," Leppman added with a self-deprecating snort, "that I've even become a member of the family, if you stretch things a little. I'm the new town constable, and a part-time certified police officer." He cast a sideways look at his companion, adding, "Not that it means much around here, and certainly not to you guys, but it's fun and interesting to do."

"Every bit helps," Lester commented supportively, although constables-or, more precisely, the vague controls overseeing them-made him nervous.

Leppman was back running the computer, his fingertips flying across the keys. "Anyhow," he continued, "it was more of a gesture. This is where I can really help, and certainly Tim's been great about using me whenever he can."

"Internet predators mostly, I heard," Lester said conversationally, watching two of the screens before them come alive.

Leppman tilted his head equivocally. "Mostly, just because of the volume involved-I helped identify eight men in three days about six months ago, and that was only in a twenty-five-mile radius around the PD. But I do other things, too. I did a wire transfer embezzlement case not long ago for a bank that didn't want any bad publicity. And there was a drug deal using e-mails that I just helped Tim and his guys with."

Lester nodded toward the screens. "That's what got us going with this. The sheriff's department is running with it, but the guy had pictures of the stuff and everything."

Leppman shrugged. "It's a shame, really. Chat rooms and the Internet are mostly wonderful outlets-real extensions to how people naturally mingle, while easing the potential social burdens of appearance or social awkwardness. People can be so much more honest there, plus, you can get information, products, services, a few laughs, and even find that special someone. Sad that it's mostly the bad aspects that attract all the headlines.

"Still," he added with an incredulous look, "when people do screw up online, they certainly can do it with style. It's amazing to me-everyone thinks they're all alone when they're on the Net. Totally crazy. I tell people it's like taking your clothes off in a crowded room and thinking you're by yourself just because your eyes are shut . . . Okay, here we are."

Spinney sat straighter in his chair, recognizing the contents of the garage's hard drive. He worked with computers routinely, was young enough to consider them a standard piece of office equipment, and played with them with his two kids at home. They were as natural to him as a typewriter was, or used to be, to Joe Gunther-just as Leppman had been saying.

But this was different-a freeze-frame, forensic snapshot of an entire hard drive's moment in time. It was the computer equivalent of stopping a stage production in mid-motion and then wandering among the motionless, mute actors from all angles, studying their positions relative to one another and the audience, including angles that wouldn't be otherwise available.

Of course, instead of actual people and a stage, here you had screen-mounted data, only some of it readable. But to Spinney the impression was similar, and he sat transfixed as his host moved the cursor among the serried lines of type.

"This is the main chat room," Leppman was saying. "It's going to be a bit messy. The data is overwritten all the time, kind of like conversations are at a noisy dinner party. What did you say the name was we're interested in?"

Lester paused before answering, thinking of all the various labels they'd attached to the man, including the uniquely descriptive Wet Bald Rocky. "Rockwell," he said.

Leppman typed in a search inquiry with that name and hit "Enter." Instantly it reappeared on the screen, floating clearly among the garbled letters.

"Well, he's here, all right," Leppman murmured, still working the cursor. "Let's see if he's chatting with anyone in particular."

He was. Just below his name, they noticed Mandi144, which Leppman copied down on a pad by his hand. Searching for Rockwell a second time, Mandi was once more right beside him. This trend continued several more times.

"So," Leppman announced, "we've got an ongoing conversation. That's good-means a relationship is building. You already know about Rockwell, right?"

Spinney was caught by surprise. "What? No, I mean, we think he's a dead man we found in Brattleboro, but that's about it. That's why we're doing this."

Leppman took his eyes off the screen to look at him. "Not Mandi? She's probably the one in trouble here."

Lester's brow furrowed. He felt he was missing something. "In trouble? How?"

Leppman looked incredulous. "Child predation. Rockwell's going after her."

"Why do you say that?" Lester asked. "I mean, I know it's all over the place, so I'm not saying you're wrong. But what did you see?"

Leppman hesitated, blinked a couple of times, and returned to studying the screen before admitting in an abashed tone, "Nothing. I guess you're right. Just jumping to conclusions. Let's dig around some more." He stopped again abruptly to ask, "You do have a way to secure subpoenas as we go, right?"

Spinney nodded. "By phone and fax." He pointed to a fax machine in one corner of the large office, adding, "If that's all right."

Leppman nodded enthusiastically. "No, no. That's great. Done it before with other agencies. I just wanted to make sure. Don't want any loopholes."

Spinney glanced at him covertly, wondering if this civilian's enthusiasm wasn't maybe getting a little too much stoking by a.s.sociation. He made a note to ask Joe later. It was a common enough sight to see consultants become more aggressive bloodhounds than the actual hunters-and pay a psychological price as a result.

Leppman had returned to the hunt. "We've got snippets of exchange here and there-usual introductory chitchat. Bingo," he finally said, straightening. "What did I tell you?" He tapped the screen with his fingertip. "Right there. She says, '14. U?' See that?"

Spinney was already reading the next line. "And Rocky says, '19.' There's a crock."

Leppman was shaking his head, continuing to scroll the lines before them. "I knew it. There's so much of this out there-guys preying on children." He fixed Lester with a determined look. "That's one of the biggest reasons I do this work."

Lester nodded, figuring the man needed some kind of response.

But Leppman wasn't watching. "These are tricky cases to prosecute-you ever done one before?"

"Nope," Spinney acknowledged.

"The bad guys-or their lawyers, at least-hide behind all sorts of excuses. And they're getting better and better as they get more knowledgeable about this high-tech world. They can make the claim that what the police find on their clients' computers was put there by a cookie or a virus or Christ knows what else, and then they convince the jury of it. I mean, who hasn't gotten spam in their e-mail? Or all those pop-up ads-where do those come from? Juries absolutely believe that complete strangers can put whatever they want onto your computer, no problem. Blame TV for that-there's no technical wizardry that can't be done if you know how to do it, right? Mostly baloney, of course, but these are paranoid times."

He added a few more notes to his pad. "Okay, I got the date and time stamp for this chat. That'll come in handy when you figure out what Rocky was doing when and where. The biggest catch here, though-since you seem a little vague on everyone's ident.i.ty-will be the chat room profiles of both Mandi and Rockwell. From there, we should be able to get their IP addresses, which will finally-after you get those subpoenas I mentioned-land us the home addresses through their Internet service provider records. Their monthly bills, in other words."

Lester didn't bother pointing out that he actually understood a great deal of this already.

Leppman had by now switched over to another computer, so that he could access the Internet rather than merely study the static contents of the Steve's Garage clone.

"Huh," he grunted. "Rockwell put a block on his chat room profile. No surprise there. Being a kid, though, Mandi was a little less cagey. She lied about her age-you can't log in, supposedly, unless you're over eighteen-but all the rest looks legit."

He scribbled down her particulars onto his pad. "Okay, so far, so good. She even gave us an address, which is unusual-the standard profile is hobbies, age, gender, general location, and the rest. I guess Mandi's still used to filling out forms correctly. Great for us."

He sat back and rested his hands for a moment, not bothering to turn his head as he spoke. "One last step before we get legal-this is just something I've learned through habit. So far, all this has been pretty much public domain information-something anyone can do with a computer and a connection. I do one more thing along similar lines: I check that address I just got against one of the mapping programs, just to make sure it's not in the middle of the Hudson River, or Lake Champlain, or Christ knows where."

He put his hands back over the keyboard and began typing. Lester watched as the screen did its version of scratching its head-portrayed by a small ticking-clock icon-before finally flashing, "Address not found."

Leppman tried a couple of variations, equally unsuccessfully, and then sat back in his chair again. "Nothing. Well, so much for good little Mandi. I guess she saw me coming after all."

Lester watched his profile, again caught by the man's level of engagement. "No sweat," he said. "I'll get on those subpoenas."

JMAN: U there? U there?JMAN: Mandi144. U there? Mandi144. U there?Mandi144: hey heyJMAN: thot I got the wrong time thot I got the wrong timeMandi144: nop. Probs w/ my mom nop. Probs w/ my momJMAN: wat? wat?Mandi144: she got fired. At home a lot she got fired. At home a lotJMAN: b.u.mmer b.u.mmerMandi144: ur telling me. R plans r messed up now ur telling me. R plans r messed up nowJMAN: I cant c.u.m up? I cant c.u.m up?Mandi144: Ill tell u when Ill tell u when

Chapter 17.

"Your mom tells me you're a police officer."

Joe looked up from the coffee machine, where he'd been hoping the spigot over his paper cup wouldn't either miss or overflow. He was so used to everyone knowing what he did for a living-and had been, it felt, for two lifetimes-that he was almost startled at the question.

Karl Weisenbeck, Leo's doctor, was standing next to him with a dollar in his hand.

"Hi, Doc. Yeah. Vermont Bureau of Investigation."

Weisenbeck nodded a couple of times, as if trying to remember the name of a song. "Sounds important."

Joe laughed as he watched the cup filling, successfully so far. "Not if you're in law enforcement. Most cops a.s.sume we exist only to steal all the credit and headlines they have coming, not to mention the grant money."

"Do you?"

Joe retrieved his cup and stood back to give Weisenbeck a shot at his own luck. The condition of the floor at the foot of the machine suggested he had a fifty-fifty chance. He enjoyed the man's directness-had from the day they first met.

"Try not to. How's Leo doing? I mean really?"

Now it was Weisenbeck's turn to look up inquiringly. "You think I've been bulls.h.i.tting you?"

"Not one bit. That's why I'm asking."

The doctor returned to monitoring his progress, even delicately placing his fingers around the cup so he'd be in position to tear it away at the right moment. A veteran.

They both waited until that time when, indeed, he had to extract prematurely and allow the spigot to piddle a little extra coffee into the miniature catch basin, from where it dribbled onto the floor. Weisenbeck shook his head with disgust and began walking with Joe down the hallway toward the ICU.

"He's no worse, which, given what he's facing, is saying a lot. From what we can tell, he's suffered no additional setbacks, which means that time is now playing to our advantage."

"Because of the bone knitting?"

"Right. Once the flail chest is behind him and he can breathe entirely on his own, my suspicion is that we'll see improvement."

"But you did say, 'From what we can tell.'"

Weisenbeck stopped walking to look at Joe straight-on. "Mr. Gunther, as I told your mother earlier, there's a lot we don't know. Sometimes, it can be like driving in winter with the windows fogged up. You trust to instinct, luck, your knowledge of the road, all your other senses, and anything else you can find. In the end, you can usually figure out why you failed-ice on the pavement, a deer jumping out in front of you, a mechanical failure. But only rarely can you do the same with success. Things often work out simply because it wasn't your time for them not to."

Oddly, Joe thought, he found those words comforting despite their absence of medical vocabulary or cant, perhaps because they so eloquently applied to life in general.

Weisenbeck's pager went off. He glanced at it briefly and began making apologies before Joe cut him off with "Believe me, Doc, I know what it's like. Thanks for your time," and headed down the hallway on his own as the doctor disappeared into a nearby stairwell.

In the ICU waiting room, as if in counterpoint to the conversation he'd just left, he walked in on Gail Zigman and his mother, sitting side by side near the window overlooking the euphemistically called "floor," their heads together in a deep discussion.

They both looked up as he entered, Gail rising.

"Hey, guys," he said, smiling. "Plotting an overthrow?"

Gail gave him a brief hug as he drew near to kiss his mother, who admitted, "Good Lord, no. We were comparing recipes."

"G.o.d, don't tell him," Gail protested. "He always hated my cooking."

"I did not," he exclaimed. "I just could never tell what it was." He glanced at his mom. "Tofu-no-fish? Instead of old-fashioned tuna? I mean, give me a break."

"That's an extreme example," Gail said.

"Tofu instead of tuna?" their elderly spectator spoke up, her interest sharpened. "That sounds wonderful. You spread it on bread?"

Joe left them to exchange details and approached the window, where he watched nurses and technicians in gowns and masks working their way among their swathed, rec.u.mbent, immobile charges. It was both futuristic fantasy and lunatic ant farm, where those bedded in the white pods were tended and catered to for reasons far outreaching their apparent usefulness.

Of course, one of those pods had a very clear use to him personally, and he found himself staring at Leo's supine shape with the intensity of an aspiring mentalist, wishing he could transfer some of his own life force across the sterile s.p.a.ce between them.

"What're you thinking?" Gail's voice said quietly from beside him.