"And now you're going to take that story to the cops."

"What?"

Jack leaned down, knife digging in. "You think my employer wants the cops nosing around in Janie Ernst's past?"

"No, but "

"You said it was an accident. You were drunk. h.e.l.l, you were so drunk you took her truck."

"Mine's not running so well," Weston whined.

"Point is, you're looking at manslaughter, tops. Even if you do time, you'll be out before you know it, and back to your life." He bent farther. "Which you aren't going to have if you don't turn yourself in."

Weston audibly swallowed.

Jack twisted the switchblade. "Remember how I said you'd die if you didn't tell me the truth? Well, if you don't don't tell the cops, you're going to tell the cops, you're going to wish wish I'd killed you." I'd killed you."

"O-okay I'll go see them in the morning "

"You'll see them tonight. If you want manslaughter, you're d.a.m.ned well going to want to prove remorse. And you want to prove you were drunk while the booze is still swimming around your blood. You'll go to them tonight and, as for me, I was never here, right?"

"R-right."

"And just in case you think of running? Remember who you're dealing with. This isn't some p.i.s.sy local gang. Wherever you go, we'll find you, and when we do, it'll be too late to change your mind."

As Weston babbled promises, Jack tossed Janie's keys into the undergrowth. Then he untied Weston's hands, leaving him to get the blindfold off and his legs freed before he found the keys. That meant we'd have a lengthy head start, which we'd need, considering we had to walk all the way back to town for my truck.

There was no way I was making Jack limp for five kilometers. Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to offer offer to get the truck I just waited until we got back on the main road and took off, his muttered curses fading behind me. to get the truck I just waited until we got back on the main road and took off, his muttered curses fading behind me.

When I returned, I drove right past Jack, who'd stepped into the ditch when he saw lights. But I caught his wave through the mirror and turned around.

I took the long way out, circling Bancroft so I wouldn't be seen pa.s.sing through twice in a few minutes. Not that there was anyone around, but I wasn't taking chances.

"That stuff about paralyzing someone," I said. "It's bulls.h.i.t."

A faint smile. "Are you sure?"

"Ninety-nine percent."

"Would you risk it?"

"I guess not," I said with a laugh. "I'll have to remember that one. Anyway, about getting him to confess? I hadn't thought of that, but it'll make things much easier if no one comes banging on my door."

"Thought so."

I glanced at him. "Thanks."

A shrug. "Easy enough."

Ten kilometers of dense forest pa.s.sed in silence, then I said, "So I was wrong again."

"Both of us were. Got the killer right. Just the wrong motive." He rubbed his leg above the cast. "The wrong motive for Janie. Maybe not wrong for Sammi."

"You think someone else killed her to steal Destiny."

He nodded.

Chapter Twenty.

At breakfast Sunday, the Previls informed us that they'd require a picnic lunch, served in the lakeside gazebo preheated, if you please followed by two more hours of rappelling.

When Emma reminded them of the noon checkout time and offered to make that a lunch to go, they told us to tack on the late-departure charge, because they weren't leaving before five. I could only muster a twinge of pique, as if three days in their company had anesthetized me.

But that didn't stop me from telling Emma to add a late-departure charge plus a fee for the extra rappelling lesson. I couldn't be too hospitable... or they might come back.

While I was tempted to take a run into town to get the "news" on Janie, Jack said it was better if he did that and I stayed clear. He was right, of course.

At lunch, while the Previls and their guests were in the gazebo, I used Jack's phone to try calling the contact number for Deanna Macy, following up on the Detroit girl's disappearance. No answer.

Jack took off after that to get a pack of cigarettes from town. While he was gone, I went online to look up the Fifer Agency. When I didn't find it in Toronto, I widened my search area, but it didn't do any good. Outside the greater Toronto area, you don't find a whole lot of model agencies. There were a couple in Ottawa and a few more in southwestern Ontario, but nothing with a name close to "Fifer."

I pulled up a list of Canadian modeling agencies. Nothing. The site linked to general photography studios, so I tried that. And there I found Pfeiffer Photography Studio, specializing in children.

I clicked on the link to the studio Web site. There was no "Jordan Pfeiffer" listed. No Pfeiffers at all. The agency was owned by a woman named Francis Lang. Working under her were four photographers. One of them was Jordan McDermott.

The note had read "Jordan Fifer Model Agency," which had been shorthand, I guess, for "Jordan at the Pfeiffer Model Agency." If this photographer had been making it up, it was unlikely he'd come up with a combination that just happened to exist. So it seemed legit.

That meant he probably had nothing to do with Sammi's murder. He'd likely been pa.s.sing through cottage country, seen Destiny, and decided to shoot a few rolls. She was was a beautiful baby. Maybe he'd taken her picture for his portfolio. a beautiful baby. Maybe he'd taken her picture for his portfolio.

I couldn't see how this tied into my baby-selling theory, but I had to strike every question off my list. Once the Previls and their guests left, the lodge had no one booked until tomorrow night. I could visit McDermott in the morning and be back before check-in time.

Jack returned from town with the news that Janie was dead, "breaking" it to me in private, then letting me tell Emma and Owen. Janie's boyfriend had confessed to accidentally killing her in a drunken fight. Everyone was fine with that. It seemed as if no one had thought of Sammi, and wondered how to get the news to her. It was as if she'd been gone for months, already forgotten.

At nine-thirty the next morning, Jack and I were sipping coffee in the parking lot of a strip mall on Lakesh.o.r.e Boulevard, waiting for the Pfeiffer Studio to open. I didn't keep disguise materials at the lodge, but by raiding the lost-and-found chest, I'd been able to whip up my favorite disguise me with thirty-five pounds' worth of extra padding.

Most witnesses are savvy enough to realize a criminal can easily alter things like hair color or style, eye color, facial hair. But when it comes to weight, they see it as an inalterable physical trait, like age or height. Add bags under my eyes and a weak pair of prescription gla.s.ses and, to a target who made his living photographing the unique and remarkable, I'd be utterly forgettable.

The studio in the next strip mall over opened at ten. At nine thirty-five, a middle-aged woman arrived and unlocked the door. Over the next forty minutes, four other people arrived, three women and a man. On the Web site, McDermott was the only male employee listed, so I paid close attention to him.

At ten-fifteen, I slipped in behind another woman dragging a screaming preschooler. The woman who'd opened the studio flew from behind the counter, a coffee mug of suckers in hand. While she mollified the youngster, I asked, "Is Jordan McDermott in?"

Without turning, she jabbed a finger toward the back hall. I shot one longing look at the suckers, then hurried off before she thought to ask whether I had an appointment.

In studio 1, two women were wrestling with a toddler who really didn't want to wear a suit and tie. I pa.s.sed studio 2. Beyond it there were three office doors. The first stood open and bore McDermott's name in bright balloon letters. Inside a dark-haired man rifled through the filing cabinet.

"Mr. McDermott?"

When he turned, I knew this was not the guy who'd met Sammi. Jordan McDermott was one photographer who was clearly on the wrong side of the cameras. It would take a hunchback and facial reconstruction to make this guy anything but drop-dead gorgeous.

When he turned, I smiled a welcome. He returned it with a stone-faced once-over, a.s.sessing and dismissing me in an eye blink. My ego boost for the day.

"Mr. McDermott." I extended a hand. "Liz Bowles, White Rock Times. White Rock Times. Do you have a minute?" Do you have a minute?"

He resumed filing. "I do, but we aren't hiring."

"Hiring? Oh, no, I'm not a photographer. I'm a journalist."

McDermott closed the filing cabinet and moved to his desk. "From where?"

"White Rock."

He waited.

"Cottage country," I added.

"Oh." A slight twist of the lips. "The Muskokas."

"The Kawarthas, actually."

"What can I do for you, Miss..."

"Bowles. Call me Liz."

Not likely, his eyes said with another glance at my midriff. his eyes said with another glance at my midriff.

I beamed a small-town smile. "Not a big fan of black-fly country, I take it?"

He rewarded my smile by picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, turning to the filing cabinet, and presenting me with a lovely view of his back. He then proceeded to file as if I'd already left.

"You should get up our way sometime," I continued. "This time of year, it's absolutely gorgeous. We have some great vacation getaway deals, too."

I watched his body language for any reaction, any tensing of the muscles. Instead, he gave a soft snort. "I'm sure it's beautiful, but I've already taken my spring vacation. To Venice." He glanced at me. "Italy."

"Wow. I bet it was gorgeous."

McDermott turned to nod, and I detected the faintest thaw in his cold front.

"It was quite nice, yes," he said. "Of course, one really should see Venice in June, but my fiancee had a photo shoot, so we had to settle for April."

"She's a model? Wow. You must have just got back home."

"This week."

"That must be tough. Coming back here after a week in Venice."

"Three weeks."

I widened my eyes. "Wow. Our readers are going to flip. A Bancroft boy, dating a supermodel, and jetting off to Venice."

McDermott's brows arched. "Bancroft?"

"You're from Bancroft, aren't you?"

He snorted. "Hardly. Born and raised right here in Toronto, thankfully."

"Oh, my G.o.d. I am so sorry, Mr. McDermott. I'm looking for a Jordan McDermott, son of John and Hazel from Bancroft. He's supposed to be a photographer in Toronto and someone gave me this address."

"I see," McDermott said, cooling fast. "Well, then I would suggest you double-check your sources. I have work to do."

Every once in a while, you get lucky and everything goes smoothly. Of course, I guess if things had gone really well, McDermott would have been moonlighting as a hitman and confessed to killing Sammi, but nothing's ever that simple.

If Sammi had tried to double-check the information, she'd have discovered that a man named Jordan really did work for Pfeiffer Photography in Toronto. Had she attempted to contact him, she would have learned he was on vacation.

Whoever had taken those pictures had put a lot of effort into his story. Exactly the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from a professional killer.

As we drove, I told Jack what we'd found. Then I tried Denise Noyes again. She answered on the third ring.

"I'm calling about Deanna Macy," I said. "I got your name off one of the missing-persons Web sites."

"Yes?"

Noyes invested the single word with such joy that I winced.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any news for you."

"Oh." Her voice drooped.

"I'm calling because my niece has disappeared, in circ.u.mstances similar to Deanna's. She vanished with her six-month-old daughter. The police say she's run away "

"But you know better, don't you? You can tell. The police I guess they've heard that story a million times, they stop listening after a while." Her voice shifted, as if she was settling into a chair. "I'm glad I decided to come home for lunch today. I forgot some tests I'd marked over the weekend."

"Are you... a friend of Deanna's?"

"Her sister. Well, half sister. Our dad got around. I was from his first marriage. Deanna was from number four. He's on six now. I'd be lying if I said Deanna and I were close. I didn't know she existed until I b.u.mped into her at a family funeral a few years ago. h.e.l.luva way to meet, huh?"

"I bet."

"She's half my age, so we didn't exactly do the sister thing, but I could see she was in a bad place, her mom dead, our dad long gone, Deanna living with her nana, who didn't much want her around. I've done okay for myself, so I tried to help out, but she wasn't comfortable with more than the occasional lunch date. After the baby, her nana kicked her out. I offered to let Deanna stay with my husband and me, but I think she didn't want to intrude, so I helped her find the group home. It wasn't ideal, but she seemed to like it there."

"Which is why you don't think she ran away."

"I know she didn't run off because if she had she wouldn't..." Another pause. A sharp intake of breath. "I'll be blunt. I don't mean to speak poorly of Deanna. She was doing the best she could but, if she'd left, she wouldn't have taken Connor. If she'd wanted to start a new life, it wouldn't have included him. She was having a hard time. She wanted to be off with her friends, going to parties, dating..."