"Is everything all right?" Huck asked.

Wilson threw him a fast question. "Does Willa know how long Emily lived in Montana?"

"Just a moment please."

The phone was muffled. Wilson strained to listen, picking up "Something for the newspaper...they're out of town." Then Willa came on.

"Hello, this is Willa Meyers."

Wilson apologized and immediately spun some quick lines, engaging Willa, drawing her into the innocuous beginnings of a conversation.

"Yes, she is a very good photographer, did some work for Newsweek and People, too," Willa boasted. "That's how she met Doug."

"At People?"

"Newsweek. He was a marine at Camp Pendleton. She did a story on his outfit or something. They fell in love. He's such a nice man."

Wilson nudged Willa along, practically portraying the Star as an extension of Emily's family because of some freelance work she did about the Golden Gate Bridge.

"Tell me about her time in Montana, her life there."

"This is for the paper?"

"Yes, we're writing something about her in relation to some other news events and need to learn about her background. Tell me about her childhood in Montana and how she became such a good photographer."

Wilson could hear Willa thinking.

"Just a little biographical stuff," Wilson said. "Then I have to get going myself."

Willa Meyers began telling Wilson about Emily's childhood, about how her father taught her about photography, and then about his death. Willa said his death devastated her mother, Willa's sister, forcing her to take Emily and leave their Montana home and come to San Francisco. Emily's mom could not cope and began drinking. She left Emily with her, then died.

"Such tragedy, but she came through OK?" Wilson said.

Willa hesitated.

"There were also some other things related to her time in Montana but it was so long ago. Emily was a child."

"What sort of things?" Wilson was losing her in the silence. "I'm sorry Willa, I don't understand. What sort of things?"

"It had something to do with the death of a child years ago. Very sad. She was getting counseling. I shouldn't be--"

Death of a child.

Wilson's pulse and breath stopped.

"What do you mean? What were the circumstances?"

Silence. Wilson could hear some talking in the background at Willa's end.

"Willa, what do you mean? A crib death? Willa?" Wilson said. "Did this happen years ago in Montana?"

A long silence passed.

"Yes, it happened in Montana. But...I think I've told you enough."

The line went dead in Wilson's ear.

She clicked off her tape recorder.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Lieutenant Leo Gonzales, head of the SFPD Homicide Detail, craved another coffee. He set down a file from early this morning, reading as he unwrapped an imported cigar. That's as far as he got when his line rang.

"Homicide. Gonzales."

"It's Web, Leo. What the latest here on our missing girl?"

"The mom was getting some sort of counseling, 'heard voices' linked to people who died years ago. That's how the kid put it to two of our people who took the domestic call to the house a while back."

"Anything else?"

"We're still waiting to contact a relative."

"Sheila Walton called me. Wants us to talk to her daughter. Seems Doug Baker is her English teacher."

"That so?"

"Kid claims he had an angry outburst and slapped her a few days before taking off to the mountains."

"We're talking about the daughter of Sheila Walton, the police commissioner?"

"Camille Rebecca Walton. Age fourteen. So take care of it right away. Here's her number."

"Will do, Chief."

Gonzales contemplated his cigar, which he was forbidden from enjoying within the environs of a municipal government office. Sheila Walton. Life used to be so simple. He shook his head and grimaced, then punched the extension for Inspector Linda Turgeon.

In less than forty-five minutes, Turgeon and Inspector Melody Hicks from General Works stood on the porch of Walton's home in Presidio Heights.

Lupe let them to the living room and Walton joined them. She wore a dark skirt and cream silk blouse; small pearl earrings accented her raven hair. The lady was elegant and attractive, exuding authority and intelligence.

After quick introductions, Walton offered tea, but they asked for coffee.

"You may use my study. I'll get Cammi."

The large study was dark and soothing, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, Boston ferns in the corners, an exquisite Chinese vase--looked like Ming Dynasty--on one shelf. Lupe left the tray of coffee and cookies on the desk. The two detectives helped themselves.

Cammi was about five feet two inches, slender figure, short dyed red hair and a stud in her left ear. She wore Capri pants and a powder blue top. No make-up today, Turgeon figured. Her eyes were reddened.

"Sit over here, Cammi," Hicks indicated the large leather chair facing the matching sofa, where she and Turgeon sat down.

"I'm Melody Hicks and this is Linda Turgeon, we're with--"

"San Francisco Police, I know. Mom told me."

Hicks set her coffee on an end table and produced a tape recorder.

"Look, Cammi. We have to record our chat. Those are the rules."

"I guess I'm OK with that."

"Good."

Hicks set her recorder on the table next to Cammi. She stated the date, place, and who was present.

"Any questions, Cammi, before we begin?"

"I don't know why Sheila called you here. She seems to think this is a big deal. I don't. Do you think this is a big deal?"

"That is what we're going to try to determine," Turgeon smiled at the girl.

"I don't think it is a police thing. I just think maybe my dad should know."

Turgeon exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Hicks.

"Why don't you tell us what happened?"

"It was after class, the term was ending and I stayed behind to tell Mr. Baker how much I liked Lord of the Flies. I told him I thought it was a good book. He told me he thought so, too."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes. So we're talking about the book and how it showed how people can lose control when they're isolated, or something; then he starts mumbling."

"About what?"

"Well, something about his wife. I didn't really understand. So I ask him, like, what's wrong. And all of a sudden, he got angry, telling me I had no right to ask about his personal life. Then he just slapped me."

"Show me exactly how."

Cammi gestured a slapping motion to her face.

"Did it hurt?"

"It stung."

"How were you positioned during this conversation?"

"I was against the wall looking up to him."

"So he was very close?"

"Yes. It scared me. He called me stupid; then he slapped me. I think he was sorry the minute he realized what he did. But I ran away. Just got out of there. I didn't know what to do about it. So I went to my principal. I don't think it's that a big a deal, do you? I mean, are you going to tell my dad that my teacher slapped me?"

"Your parents are not together?"

Cammi shook her head.

"Divorced three years ago. My dad writes movies in L.A. He has a girlfriend and they're getting married in a few weeks."

"You all right with that?"

Cammi shrugged. "Sure. We never see him anyway."

"How do you get on with your mother?"

"Sheila and I get along fine." Cammi stood. "So are we all done then?"

Turgeon had a thought.

"Cammi, what do you think of Doug Baker's daughter lost in the mountains now?"

"It's terrible. What do you think?"

"Yes, it's terrible."

"I guess I do not want to see him get into trouble over this thing with me. I think he was sorry for it. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, leave it with us for now, okay?" Turgeon smiled.

On their way out, the two detectives spoke privately with Walton about keeping her apprised of their investigation.

"Thank you. I'd like to get to the bottom of this as soon as it is possible," Walton said, passing them both cards with her cell phone number.

During the drive back to the Hall of Justice both women shook their heads in the wake of Cammi Walton's strange account.

"Doug Baker's looking real bad in my book right now," Hicks said.

Turgeon could not figure it out. Doug Baker was either some kind of ticking time bomb, or Cammi's version of events was a little out of focus.

"None of this makes sense," Turgeon said.