"I suppose so," said Walker. "Forget that idea. What about making a list of people who have no visible means of support?"

"You mean like the idea I had about checking their health insurance in the drugstore?"

"It's not as elegant, but we only need to eliminate thirty-seven now. We go in every door on Main. Write down the men who work as waiters or store clerks or cops: anybody who has a name tag, or anybody whose name is on an office directory. That should eliminate a few of the ones you couldn't reach by telephone. They were out working when you called." He squinted. "A big step would be to somehow get a list of employees at New Mill Systems."

"I tried New Mill this morning. I called and asked for the personnel manager. Some guy came on, so I said I was from the New Hampshire Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. I asked for a list of employees broken down by age, s.e.x, and race."

"Race?" said Walker. "I haven't seen a pair of brown eyes since I got here, let alone brown skin."

"What do you want from me? I asked the guy what he expected to hear. No dice. He said the company employs fewer than a hundred people, and has been certified exempt from reporting requirements."

"Is that true?" asked Walker. "Are companies like that exempt from discrimination laws?"

"How the h.e.l.l do I know what the law is in New Hampshire? It doesn't matter anyway. I'm not going to take him to court. The list I wanted would have been of people who didn't do anything wrong."

Walker's eyes settled on the sidewalk as he contemplated the problem. "Thirty-eight men ...."

"We've been in New Hampshire for three days, and none of the devious ways has worked. What I think we've got to do is start taking some chances."

"Start?"

"Yeah. Risk drawing attention to ourselves. Ask direct questions of anybody who will talk to us. 'Do you know James Scully? Who does he hang out with?'"

"I think you're right," said Walker. "It would probably go faster if we split up and talked to as many-"

"Maybe not," said Stillman.

Walker looked up and stared at him. His eyes were squinting ahead. "But you just said-"

"Look," said Stillman.

Walker turned his eyes to follow Stillman's gaze. Far up the street, two men were getting out of a car parked along Main Street across from the coffee shop. Walker studied them, not quite daring to make a decision yet, straining his eyes and waiting for them to turn their heads so he could see their faces.

Stillman tugged his arm lightly to divert him into an alcove that shaded the entrance to a clothing store, and the movement of Walker's body made him come to his senses. Waiting in plain sight for them to turn around would be insane. What they appeared to be were the two men who had pretended to be cops in the alley in Pasadena, but he wasn't sure. He was positive he knew their faces, their postures, and their walks. In his shock and alarm he had studied them, imprinted them on his memory that night.

"Your eyes are better than mine," Stillman said. "Stand here." Stillman nudged him near the corner of the display window where he could look up the street through both panes of gla.s.s. "You won't stand out between those mannequins. Steady. Don't move, just look."

Walker obeyed. He stood absolutely still, staring, holding his breath. One of the men had moved out of sight along the side of the car, toward the front. The other was at the trunk. He leaned over, opened the trunk, and bent down to get something out. Then he stood erect again, slammed the lid, and turned. Walker could see the movement of the shoulders, then the dark hair. The man looked up the street to check for traffic before he stepped away from the car. Then he looked down toward Walker, and Walker saw the bushy mustache. The two men trotted across the street. Walker stepped back.

"It's them," said Walker. "They're here."

34.

Stillman's eyes were gleaming. "Well, now that is a real gift from above," he murmured.

"Should we follow them?" asked Walker.

"I think we'd better concentrate on making sure we don't b.u.mp into them. We have to a.s.sume their memory for faces is as good as ours."

Stillman stepped to the edge of the alcove where Walker had stood, then slowly moved his body to the right to see more and more of the sidewalk along the row of old buildings. When he had one eye beyond the corner of the display window, he said, "They went into the coffee shop," and stepped out.

They turned away from the place where they had seen the two men and strode briskly toward the end of the row of buildings. Stillman said, "Let's get across the street down there by the bridge, then head along the river to the next street."

Walker led the way to Washington Street, where Main narrowed to funnel traffic onto the bridge, then glanced back toward the coffee shop before he ventured across. He and Stillman reached the other side quickly, and it took them only a few more steps to reach the curb, cross the sidewalk, and slip out of sight behind the bulk of the big building on the corner. He waited for Stillman to catch up. "What are we doing-getting the car?"

"It's parked on Main, remember? We can't get to it without putting ourselves in sight of the coffee shop," Stillman said. "But I guess I'm finally going to get to say something that you'll be happy to hear. Those two, thanks to us, are already wanted for questioning in connection with a homicide investigation. Also for a.s.sault. We're going to the police station to get their a.s.ses thrown in jail."

Walker noticed that his heart must have been beating hard since he had seen the two men. It was beating hard now, and it didn't slow, but it wasn't preparing him to contend for his life. "I can hardly believe it," he said.

"It's almost over," said Stillman. "Once we get the police to put down their coffee cups, our whole reason for being here is going to begin to fade. About all we're going to have to do is say, 'Yep, those are the ones.' We'll find out some real names, the cops here will hold them, and the authorities all over the place will have time to start dreaming up the charges that mean something."

Walker was frowning. "Why do you suppose they're here at all?"

"I'm not sure," said Stillman. "If I needed a theory to keep me warm, I would guess it's for the same reason we're here. They want to get a good look at Jimmy Scully's house, to see if he left anything lying around that leads to them." They reached the corner of the first street parallel with Main, which was called Const.i.tution Avenue. As they turned and started up the street, he said, "Come to think of it, I was forgetting about the other guy, the one who had similar DNA to Scully. There's his house, too. We still don't know who he was, but they do. We were under the impression that he might have lived around here, and it could be we were right."

Walker touched Stillman's arm. "Wait. What if they leave before we get to the station? We should go back to Main and get the license number of their car."

"New Hampshire plate, NXV-76989."

"Pretty good," said Walker.

"Presence of mind," said Stillman. "Work on it. In this business, you can't get by on afterthought."

"Good thing I'm not in this business." Walker held Stillman in the corner of his eye, but his reaction was invisible.

They walked with the same quick, long strides up Const.i.tution Avenue, under old maple and oak trees that merged above the road to form a canopy over the pavement and kept them in uninterrupted shade until they came to a cross street, then closed over them again until the next one. Walker noted their progress impatiently as they crossed Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, Grant, then the streets named after trees: Sycamore, Oak, Maple, Birch, Hemlock. The houses along Const.i.tution were nearly all from a period that had been referred to loosely in Ohio as colonial-mostly white, with two rows of shuttered windows, a center entrance with a pedimented doorway, and chimneys at both ends. It was a strange place to be doing what he was doing now: rushing to the police station to get some murderers arrested.

He could see that he and Stillmen were coming to the side street where they had parked yesterday to look at the police station. He said, "Is there anything I should know before we tell them? Anything I should keep to myself?"

Stillman answered, "I'll do the lying, and you swear to it. While we were in Miami, we got an anonymous tip that one of these guys lived around Keene. We haven't done any investigating since we got here-just looked around in these little towns to get our bearings-and we just happened to see those two."

"The cops are going to buy that?"

"We've only been in Keene two nights, and we can prove it. No cop is going to think that's a long time not to accomplish anything."

They headed for the back doors that opened onto the parking lot. Stillman nodded toward the row of shiny patrol cars. "Fifteen today. Ought to be enough for our purposes."

The doors opened onto a short, bare white hallway with doors on either side. To the right, Walker could see that one of the doors was steel, and had an impressive electronic lock with a numbered keypad. He supposed that it led to a cellblock, and this must be the entrance the police used to bring a suspect in from a patrol car. It would preserve the tranquillity of upper Main Street. In a short time, he thought, those two men would be taking a trip through that doorway.

The corridor opened onto a large reception area, with a low wooden counter along the whole left side, and several plain, unmarked doors along the walls behind it. On the right side of the room were squat, heavy wooden benches that were bolted to the floor.

Two uniformed policemen were sitting at desks behind the counter. One of them was in his late thirties with blond hair that was cut too short on the sides, revealing the ridges and b.u.mps of his skull. The other was shorter and had a dark mustache waxed at the ends to turn upward and small, close-set blue eyes. Walker was pleased with them: they were just frightening enough to inspire confidence.

Stillman walked up to the counter, and they both stood up. The smaller one hung back and leaned against a desk, watchful, while the tall one stepped forward. Stillman said, "Good afternoon, officers." His voice was loud and his words clearly enunciated.

The policeman at the counter said, "Yes, sir," and the other folded his arms and waited.

"My name is Max Stillman, and this is John Walker. We're here investigating a fraud case for McClaren Life and Casualty." As he spoke he was producing one of his business cards. He handed it to the cop, who studied it as though it actually said something.

"What can we do for you?" asked the tall man.

"A few minutes ago, we happened to recognize two men on Main Street. They're wanted by police in Pasadena, California, and Wallerton, Illinois, in connection with a kidnapping, murder, and a.s.sorted other charges."

The policemen looked at each other without speaking, but an understanding pa.s.sed between them. The shorter one went through one of the doorways behind him, while the other reached under the counter and produced a piece of paper that looked to Walker like some kind of report form and a pen.

"Can you give me their names?"

"I'm afraid I can't," said Stillman.

"Did you bring a warrant for them?"

"No, we didn't," said Stillman. "If you need it, the Illinois State Police can wire you one. The main points are that you've got two men in the coffee shop down the street from here who are wanted, dangerous, and probably armed. They're driving a new blue Chevrolet with New Hampshire plate number NXV-76989."

"Description?"

"One of them is six feet tall, one seventy-five with light brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a tan shirt with a military cut and b.u.t.ton breast pockets. The other is six-one, about two hundred, dark hair and mustache, wearing a blue oxford shirt, blue jeans, and a dark green nylon windbreaker. That one is carrying a briefcase."

The shorter cop reappeared with a gray-haired man about Stillman's age. His face was thin, with a strong chin and defined cheekbones, and eyebrows that seemed habitually stuck in a look of determination. He wore a tie and a short-sleeved white shirt with a gold badge pinned to the pocket, but as he walked in, he was putting on a summer-weight sport coat that covered his shoulder holster. Walker was even more pleased with this man. Walker had spent enough time in police stations lately to know this was the boss.

The tall cop stopped scribbling, looked up from his paper at Stillman, saw where his eyes had focused, and turned. "This is Chief Raines. Chief, these fellows say they just identified two men who were-"

"I heard that part," the chief interrupted. "You gentlemen positively identified both suspects yourselves?"

"Yes, sir," said Stillman. "They were going into the coffee shop down Main Street, and we came directly here."

"You've seen them before? Not just a picture on a circular?"

"Yes," Stillman answered.

"Both of you?"

"Yes," said Walker. "We've seen them at close range. We're absolutely sure they're the right ones."

The chief turned to the taller cop. "You've already got full descriptions of them and gotten all the information?"

"Not quite, Chief." The tall cop turned back to Stillman with his pen held ready. "What was that place in Illinois?"

"Wallerton," said Stillman. "But it might be quicker to call the state police in Springfield."

"And what murder are we talking about?"

"The victim's name is Ellen Snyder. You already have our names."

"Right." The tall cop turned around to look at his boss expectantly, holding the paper in both big hands.

Chief Raines said, "Elton, get the state police in Springfield and have them verify, fax a description and a warrant." The tall cop walked through another of the doors behind the counter. Raines said to the shorter cop, "Carlyle, let's get some officers down there to see what we've got."

The orders were coming quickly, but they seemed to be contradictory. Walker wasn't sure whether he should be pleased or not. He looked at Stillman, who had slipped into his expression of quiescent inscrutability. He was looking down, ostensibly at the counter in front of him, but Walker could see that his left arm was bent across his belly. He was looking at his watch.

Chief Raines said, "I want you to get officers into position on the streets near the coffee shop. No black-and-whites in sight, and no uniforms where the suspects might see them. n.o.body moves in until I give you the word on frequency two. Just keep the coffee shop covered, front and back, and stand by." Carlyle nodded and headed for the door behind the counter.

Stillman seemed to awaken. "Chief Raines, if I may-"

"No, you may not," said the chief, evenly. "Here's how it is. Maybe some big-city police forces will burst into a coffee shop any old afternoon and arrest whoever you say, just because it was you that said it. Around here, we need to have more to go on. If what you said is true, then it won't take but a few minutes to get confirmation."

"Of course," said Stillman in the same cool, even tone. "I don't blame you."

"Good," said the chief with finality. He began to turn toward the doorway where Carlyle had disappeared.

"But," said Stillman. The chief stopped in mid-turn. "It's just that I happened to notice that there seemed to be only one road out of town."

Chief Raines c.o.c.ked his head. "Yeah. We have noticed that too. Sit tight and I'll let you know as soon as we've gotten through to Springfield." He walked off to the complex of inner offices.

Stillman turned, walked across the open floor, and sat down on one of the benches. Walker hesitated, then went to join him. Stillman was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor.

Walker whispered, "Is this the way you expected it to go?"

Stillman pursed his lips as though deciding not what the answer was, but whether he was going to answer. "I was hoping they'd haul them in and take care of the formalities at their leisure. But he's doing pretty much what he's supposed to do, given all considerations."

"What considerations?"

"He doesn't work for us. He works for the town of Coulter. The voters don't mind if he locks up a couple of out-of-town murderers, but there's not much thanks in it. He's not going to take on any foolish risks to do it."

"What do we do?"

"We already did it. Now we wait."

Walker looked at his watch. It was two thirty-five. He sat back on the hard wooden bench and stared at the front of the wooden counter across the big room. He stared until he got to know every line of the wood grain, then stared at the smooth floor until he began to alternate the patterns in the dark granite squares and the white marble squares, first seeing them as a white floor with black on it, then as a black floor with white on it.

He heard a door swing open on the back hallway, and stood up to walk to the center of the floor. He counted six policemen striding out the rear entrance to the parking lot. He saw Stillman's eyes on him and nodded. Stillman's shoulders lowered, as though the muscles had relaxed, and he leaned his back on the bench. When the sounds of engines starting and cars in motion reached him, Stillman looked at his watch again. Walker didn't have to. Twenty-five minutes had elapsed.

Chief Raines emerged from the door beyond the counter and beckoned to them once. When they had moved close enough so he didn't need to raise his voice, he said, "Okay. You're for real, and the murder is real. We ought to have them before long."

"Thanks, Chief," said Stillman. He turned to go back to his bench.

"Before they get in here, you and I had better have a talk," said the chief. He stepped to the side and lifted a hinged section of the countertop to make an opening.

Walker and Stillman followed him into a large office in the corner of the building. Walker had started antic.i.p.ating the questions. He had been in three police stations in a month, and he was beginning to feel expert. Raines had the manner of a man who had a great penchant for getting straight to the part of a story that mattered, but whose position made everybody he ever listened to give him obfuscation, evasion, and misdirection. He sat down behind his desk, leaving Walker and Stillman to decide whether they wanted to sit, and which of the four chairs in the room they would do it in.

"What are these two suspects from Illinois doing in Coulter, New Hampshire? What do they want here?"

Stillman said, "We can't say for sure, of course. What we think is that they're here because they had a friend-a confederate in the fraud case, anyway-who lived here. He was killed in Florida, and they'll want to be sure he didn't leave anything that will get them into trouble."