Logan had joined the team, making himself available to help with warrants or anything else the detectives needed. He looked as wired as Kovac felt. He had pulled his power tie loose and unb.u.t.toned the neck of his shirt. He was pacing too.

"He hasn't seen me yet," Logan said. "He's going to think we've upped the ante, involving the prosecutor's office. Let me and Kovac speak to him together."

Dawes sighed. "He's not under arrest. Be careful what you ask and how you ask him."

Logan arched an eyebrow. "That's usually my line."

"Can we get warrants?" Kovac asked. "I want his financials. And I want to toss that den and the girlfriend's apartment."

"Don't push your luck," Logan said.

"Have we forgotten our strange little colleague who's running around performing his own personal version ofThe Scarlet Letter ?" Tippen asked dryly. "Our man Stan left his intentions on videotape."

"But how does Dempsey get in the house?" Elwood asked. "How does he get past the security system?"

"When did he become a blond woman?" Liska asked. "That's who pulled out of here this morning: a blond woman."

"Even in a wig, even from a distance, n.o.body is going to mistake Stan Dempsey for a woman," Dawes said.

"So we're back to thinking it was the nanny driving out of here this morning?" Logan asked.

"Blonde in a Saab," Liska said.

Kovac stopped his pacing, his brow knitting. "The guy who joined Moore and his girlfriend and Edmund Ivors Friday night at the Marquette. He's blond, slender, fine features."

He turned back to Dawes. "Did you get the security tape from the bar?"

"It's at the station."

"But if he's the hired gun," Liska said, "where's the nanny? The cops outside saw one woman in the car."

"So he took the nanny too?" Tippen said. "Why?"

"I still say if the nanny was involved, she would have been smarter to stay here," Kovac said. "Why draw suspicion?"

"If she acted alone, she wouldn't have had any choice," Dawes said.

"But then what?" Liska asked. "If she made off with the judge, dumped the body somewhere, she can't exactly come cruising in here and tell us she's been at Starbucks all this time. How does she ever come back here?"

"Maybe she doesn't," Elwood said. "She's Swedish; she's got a pa.s.sport. Say she dumps the judge, hops a plane to wherever, and David Moore joins her after the furor has died down. After he's gotten his hands on Judge Moore's money."

"Well, there's one good way to find out," Logan said. He looked at Kovac and tipped his head toward the closed dining room door.

"Okay," Dawes said. "You two go that route. Elwood, Tippen, go back to the station, get on the phones, and call all the airlines. See if this girl booked herself a flight somewhere.

"Nikki, do you still think the Haas boy and his friend might be connected to this?"

Liska shrugged. "I don't know. a.s.saulting the judge in the parking ramp was one thing. Could Bobby Haas mastermind a kidnapping as slick as this one? Seems unlikely."

Dawes nodded. "And what would his motive be for doing something this risky?"

"To get the Dahl trial handed over to another judge," Liska suggested. "Some hang-'em-high type."

"We have one of those?" Elwood asked, puzzled.

"Any word on the father of the dead foster children?" Dawes asked.

Liska nodded. "The reason we couldn't find Ethan Pratt is that he's enjoying the hospitality of our brethren in St. Paul. Another bar fight."

"Another Dallas Cowboys fan?" Tippen asked.

"New York Yankees."

"I'm with the lieutenant," Kovac said impatiently. "It doesn't make sense the Haas kid would risk so much. Even if he is bent on getting Karl Dahl convicted."

"And what about Karl Dahl?" Elwood asked. "Do we consider him for this?"

"Why would he want to harm Carey--Judge Moore?" Logan corrected himself. "Her ruling went in his favor. And how would he know how to get into this house? Why would he risk it with cops sitting right out front and every law enforcement officer in the metro area hunting him?"

"He's not exactly a model of mental health and stability," Tippen reminded them. "Who knows what strange creatures live in the depths of his psyche? Why would he butcher a woman and two small children? Who can explain that?"

"My money's still on the husband," Kovac said, heading for the door. "Let's go crack him like a soft-boiled egg."

Kovac and Logan walked down the hall, each closed off in his own mind, forming a plan for how this interview would go. When they stepped into the den, David Moore looked up from where he sat in one of the armchairs, nursing a drink. It was not yet noon.

"I'm not talking to you, Kovac."

Kovac arched a brow. "Was it something I said?"

Moore looked at Logan and said, "I'm not talking to him."

"That's your right, David," Logan said, matter-of-fact as he took a seat on the arm of the leather love seat.

Kovac sat back against Moore's desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Should I have a lawyer present?" Moore asked.

"I don't know why you would want one," Logan said. "You're not under arrest for anything."

Moore's eyes darted from Logan to Kovac, Kovac to Logan, like a mouse sizing up his odds against a pair of tomcats.

"I had nothing to do with Carey's disappearance," he said.

Logan ignored him. "How long has your nanny been with the family?"

"Uh, three years."

"She had good references when she came to you?"

"Of course."

"And you called those references and spoke with her former employers?"

"Carey did. Why? You can't possibly think Anka has anything to do with this."

Kovac raised his brows as if he was surprised by the stupidity of Moore's statement. "Well, let's look at the facts. The nanny is missing, the nanny's car is missing, and your wife is missing."

"That's ridiculous," Moore said. "Anka would never--"

"Just how close is Anka with the family?" Logan asked.

"She's wonderful. She loves Lucy."

"What about with you?"

"What about with me?" Moore looked confused, then disgusted. "Anka is my daughter's nanny. That's it."

"She's a beautiful girl," Kovac said. "Young, hot. She seemed very . . . devoted . . . to you."

Moore got up from his chair. "This is ridiculous."

"Is it?" Logan asked. "If I go upstairs and look through her things, I'm not going to find any photographs of you, of you and her?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been in her room."

"Oh, come on, David," Kovac said. "You're leading a double life. You've stashed one girlfriend in an apartment--we're supposed to find it so hard to believe that you wouldn't go for a little Swedish meatball?"

"That's disgusting."

"Why? You seem to have the moral backbone of a leech," Logan said. "Why wouldn't you be trying to screw the nanny?"

"That's it!" Moore shouted. "Get out! You can address any more questions you might have to my attorney."

"Your choice, David," Logan said, calm again. "But if you take that route, I can't play nice anymore."

"Nice?" Moore shouted, incredulous.

"Hey, Logan?" Kovac asked. "He lawyers up, do I get my warrants?"

"What do you want, Detective?"

"Search and inventory the house, starting with the room we're in; his financials--"

"Follow the money," Logan said.

"Why aren't you out trying to find my wife, instead of hara.s.sing me?" Moore asked.

He was as p.i.s.sed off as Kovac had seen him. And scared. There was panic in his eyes. He moved like a caged animal, back and forth, back and forth.

"As we both know, she isn't going to be your wife much longer," Kovac said. "She was getting ready to toss you off the gravy train, Sport."

Red faced, Moore went around behind his desk and picked up the phone. The guy from the BCA looked at Kovac and Logan in disbelief. Moore was using the house phone when he was supposed to be waiting on pins and needles for a ransom call.

"It's David Moore," he said. "I need an attorney. Now."

42.

KOVAC WALKED OUTof the den and up the stairs, leaving Logan to deal with David Moore. As soon as Moore invoked his right to counsel, that was it. The interview was over, from Kovac's point of view. Anything incriminating Moore might say--if he was stupid enough to say anything at all--would be argued to be out of bounds by his attorney. And any evidence against him discovered as a result of such a statement would be out as well.

Despite Liska's statement to the contrary, Kovac wasn't stupid enough to push that line. As badly as he wanted to beat an admission of guilt out of Carey's husband, he turned and walked away.

The crime scene team had finished processing the nanny's bedroom. Kovac stood at the open door for a moment, looking in, trying to imagine what had gone on here.

The bed, which looked as if no one had slept in it, had been stripped and the sheets taken away to be processed for fibers and bodily fluids. The carpet had been recently vacuumed.

A lot could have happened here between the time of Kovac's last conversation with Carey and the time the nanny's car had pulled out of the driveway that morning. He couldn't help but imagine the possibilities. He'd dealt with too many violent crimes and too many violent criminals.

There had been no obvious signs of blood or s.e.m.e.n in either bed. But murder could be committed without bloodshed. A rape could be concealed with a condom.

If David Moore had hired out the apparent kidnapping, returning the victim wasn't part of the deal. His objective was presumably to get rid of his wife, get her out of his way, and get his hands on her money. And as soon as the job had been handed over to the contractor, whatever else happened was out of Moore's control. Carey and the nanny, provided the nanny wasn't part of the scheme, would have been entirely at the mercy of a cold-blooded killer.

Kovac stepped into the room, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and started poking around for any sign that the Swedish girl might have had an inappropriate connection to her employer.

The dresser was clutter-free. A small lamp on either end. A jewelry box. He lifted the lid. A couple of necklaces, earrings, nothing expensive.

Three small framed photographs smudged with fingerprint dust sat on the nightstand beside the bed. Anka and a couple of friends on a hiking trip; Anka and her family, half a dozen identical blond Swedes of various ages from teens to fifties; Lucy Moore and Anka bundled in winter coats, beaming smiles, kneeling beside a snowman. David Moore crouched down behind them, one hand resting on Anka Jorgenson's shoulder. Happy family. There were no photographs of the nanny with Carey Moore.

The drawer of the nightstand held the kinds of things women everywhere kept in their nightstands--a nail file, hand lotion, lip balm, a couple of pens, an address book, a journal.

Kovac lifted the journal and opened the cover, half expecting to read:Dear Diary, I think I'm in love with David Moore. What he found was a whole lot of Swedish. The big revelation, if there was to be one, would have to wait until they could get someone to translate. Luckily, in a state full of Scandinavian descendants, that wouldn't take very long.

Small comfort, he thought, considering they had no idea how much time they had. It could already be too late.

He went to the closet and opened the door, looking for obvious signs that the nanny had packed a bag before she vanished. But there was no telltale block of empty hangers. The closet was neat as a pin. A roll-on suitcase and a duffel bag were tucked into one corner.

Kovac closed the closet door, turned around, and surveyed the room again. No one had left this room in a hurry. No one had been forced to leave this room. No struggle had taken place here.