"Any idea what that means?" Frank asked.

"I know exactly what it means and who wrote it. Last week I had to fire three local men who were working here as carpenters because they simply refused to follow the blueprints. I replaced them with reliable men from New York City who have worked for our firm before. Today, I came in and found this blatant threat to damage the house. I demand that you arrest these men. Their names are Richie Blevins, Pete Ringold, and Dan Strohman."

Frank knew who the three men were-Richie and Pete were about Earl's age; Dan was a little older, with a wife and kid. They were all struggling to stay afloat, patching together a living by working a variety of part-time jobs. He knew they were all hard workers and probably d.a.m.n good carpenters, even if they weren't used to following a fancy architect's plan. He could just imagine Dan arguing with Sean that those trusses would never hold the house up.

Getting fired from one of the best-paying gigs in the county wouldn't be easy to swallow, so Frank didn't doubt the boys had cooked up this little retaliation after a few beers at the Mountainside. But they had probably gotten the anger out of their systems now and had forgotten all about their threat. "You may be right, but I can't arrest them without more evidence than that. I'll talk to them, though."

"Talk to them?" Vinson all but stamped his foot. "The house is slated to be the subject of a major article in Architectural Digest in the spring. I want them locked up where they can't do any harm."

Yes, the glossy magazine spread might get cancelled if SEAN SUCKS were sprayed on that stone work. Frank gestured toward the trailer. "Minor property damage doesn't normally result in much of a prison term, Mr. Vinson. Trust me, I'll see that they don't give you any more trouble."

"We can't afford any setbacks."

"Seems like Mr. Extrom can afford quite a lot. What line of work is he in, anyway?"

"Communications."

"Owns some radio and TV stations?"

"Hardly." Apparently, Vinson had never encountered such doltish naivete. "Wireless communications. Satellites, fiber optics. This house will include a state-of-the-art communications network."

"That'll come in handy, I'm sure." Frank returned his gaze to Vinson. "I'll go speak to those fellas. They won't pull any more stunts like this."

"You'd better be right." Vinson slammed his graffitied office door in Frank's face.

On the way down the mountain, Frank caught one last glimpse of the house in his rearview mirror. Why didn't Green Tomorrow protest this monstrosity? The ma.s.sive house must've displaced more than a few bird nests.

Oh, but this was no monstrosity; this place had been blessed by Architectural Digest, whereas poor old Abe would more likely be written up in Trailer Parks Today. Maybe Green Tomorrow didn't mind a.s.saults on the environment that were so tasteful.

He'd have to ask Beth about that.

22.

ON THE WAY BACK TO THE OFFICE, Frank decided to stop in and see the Sheehans. Their front yard was covered in a thick layer of fallen leaves; Mary Pat had probably taken care of the raking. Frank kicked through them, breathing in their warm, sweet smell. At the door he knocked and waited. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened. Ann Sheehan stared at him without a word, then turned around, shouted "Joe!" and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Frank on the porch.

Well, there was no doubt where he stood with Ann Sheehan. He hoped her husband might be a little warmer. Joe had apparently been down in the bas.e.m.e.nt; he arrived at the door slightly out of breath, and came out to join Frank on the porch.

"Now what?" Joe asked.

So he was persona non grata with them both now. He decided to lead off with the question about Olivia Veech, since asking about Mary Pat's lover was sure to raise Joe's hackles.

"I'm still trying to verify what Mary Pat was doing out on Harkness Road, in case it has something to do with the baby. Anita Veech, who cleans at the Stop'N'Buy, recently told me that Mary Pat went out there regularly to visit her little daughter, Olivia. Did Mary Pat ever mention that?"

Joe let out an exasperated snort. "Oh, Olivia! Mary Pat just worried herself sick about that little gypsy. Always looking for clothes for her at the clothing bank, buying her books and crayons and such. Anita was just using that child to get money out of Mary Pat. I told her she better leave those Veeches alone, but she said Olivia couldn't help the family she was born into."

"So Mary Pat did go out to Harkness Road to visit Olivia?" Why hadn't Joe mentioned that possibility in the first place?

"I don't know about that. Mary Pat talked about seeing the kid when Anita brought her in to the store. I didn't even know you could get back to where the Veeches live from Harkness. I thought you had to go in by way of Route Twelve, then take that unmarked road."

"If Mary Pat knew you didn't approve, she wouldn't have mentioned going out there, right?" Yet another secret Mary Pat had kept from her parents.

"I suppose so." Joe no longer bothered to insist Mary Pat wouldn't have concealed the truth.

It looked as if Anita's story could be true then-maybe the trips to Harkness Road had nothing to do with Mary Pat's lover. Which made Galloway all the more likely a prospect.

Frank pulled the greeting card out. "I found this in the roadside emergency kit in Mary Pat's trunk. I think it might be from Mary Pat's-" He found he couldn't use the word lover to Joe. "The father of the baby. Do you recognize the signature?"

Joe accepted the card with all the eagerness of a man being handed a live tarantula. He pushed his gla.s.ses up to get the bifocals aligned for close scrutiny. "I can't make out the name. But that writing looks familiar to me, like I seen it somewhere before."

"Where? Another card that was mailed to the house?"

Joe shrugged.

Frank tried to keep his tone casual. "Have you ever been to the Cascade Clinic?"

Joe wrinkled his brow at the sudden change in topic. "Yeah, once last year when I had pink-eye. That young doctor prescribed some drops and it went away. Why?"

Now there was no mistaking Frank's interest. "So you had a prescription filled. Could that be where you saw that writing?"

"You mean you think that young doctor, the short fella, was the guy who..."

"There's some link there, but I don't have any solid evidence that Galloway is the father. It may be that he helped deliver the baby." Frank told Joe about the antibiotics he'd found with the card, and about his visit with Dr. Galloway. "Did Mary Pat ever mention him, say that he came into the store?"

Joe shook his head.

"What about Ann? Can I ask her?"

Joe now bristled. "You leave Ann out of this. She don't want you prying into Mary Pat's business."

Why did the Sheehans treat him like some busybody from the Store? "For G.o.d's sake, Joe, your daughter's death wasn't an accident; it was a crime. Whoever wrote that prescription knew Mary Pat was sick, knew that the birth hadn't gone well. She should've been taken to the hospital. Instead, he tried to patch her up himself and she died. Don't you think Mary Pat deserves some justice for what was done to her?"

Tears streamed down Joe's face. He put his hand on the doork.n.o.b and backed away from Frank. "You can't give her justice-only G.o.d can. She's in heaven now. Just leave us alone."

Frank got back in the patrol car and ma.s.saged his temples. Might as well make the afternoon complete by visiting another person who'd be unhappy at the news he had to deliver: Fred Jacobson.

Dean Jacobson's grandfather answered the door after a protracted period of shuffling and m.u.f.fled shouts of "I'm coming, I'm coming." Frank followed him into the cramped and shabby living room. Amazing how similar old people's houses all smelled-the place exuded that trademark scent of mothb.a.l.l.s, musty magazines, and burnt toast. There was no sign of a young person's presence here.

When Frank broke the news of the autopsy results, the old man bore it stoically.

"Drugs. I thought that might be it, but I didn't know what to do." He raised his hands, then let them fall back in his lap. "I'm too old for this. I raised my kids the best I knew how, but I just didn't know what to do about Dean."

"How did he come to be living here?" Frank asked.

"Both his parents died within a few months of each other, his last year in high school. Dean was angry about his folks pa.s.sin', but it wasn't anybody's fault-heart attack, cancer, what can you do? He wasn't prepared to live on his own, but he didn't want to take no rules from me, neither. He worked some and gave me a little money, but it was like having a boarder here-he came and went on his own schedule."

"So you don't know who his friends were?"

"He never brought anyone here, and if fellows called when Dean wasn't home, they never left a message."

"You said he'd been acting strange lately?"

Fred nodded. "He came home one night and woke me up; he was talking so loud. I thought someone was here with him, but when I came out, it was just Dean alone, pacin' around the house, talking up a storm and not making a lick of sense."

"When was this?"

"About three weeks ago. After that, it seemed like he hardly slept. He was barely ever home, but when he was, he was jumpy and nervous and always muttering to himself. I guess it was the drugs makin' him like that, huh?"

"I'm afraid so. Could I look around his room, Mr. Jacobson?"

"Sure." Fred led the way to a small bedroom in the back of the house. "It's real messy. I couldn't get him to clean it up."

If the rest of the house smelled of old age, Dean's room reeked of youth: sweat, unwashed clothes, and half-eaten food, overlaid with spray deodorant. Frank lifted the gray-sheeted mattress and immediately found what remained of Dean's drug stash. But an hour of sifting through the clutter of CDs, video games, magazines, and clothes didn't produce an address book, or even any scribbled phone numbers that would provide a link to his dealer.

Frank spent the rest of the day trying to come up with more evidence to support his suspicions of Dr. Galloway, but the facts just wouldn't cooperate. Galloway had graduated near the top of his cla.s.s, had volunteered at an inner-city health program in Washington, and got sterling recommendations for his job at the Cascade Clinic. No patients had ever complained about him to the state medical board. He had no outstanding traffic violations, a good credit report despite his high debt, and neighbors who said he never entertained anyone at his apartment.

Frank hung up the phone after the last unproductive call and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. A vision of Mary Pat's baby flickered through his mind's eye: a little bundle wrapped in a blanket with only a shock of black hair and two dark eyes peeping out. The Finns had said the baby they were offered had been dark. Galloway had dark hair and eyes, but so did Doug Penniman and a thousand other guys.

The Finns said they didn't know who the father was, but he hadn't really quizzed them on whether Mary Pat or Sheltering Arms had dropped some hint about him. Frank smiled at himself. He knew the hint he'd like to hear-something along the lines of "The baby will be smart because the father's a doctor." Still, it couldn't hurt to call the Finns and go over that again, just to see if he'd missed anything.

He found their number in his file and dialed. A few clicks on the line, then the familiar three-note tone followed by a recorded voice: "The number you have dialed, 518-555-1247, has been disconnected." Click.

Frank's hand tightened on the receiver. Had they changed their number for some reason? He dialed directory a.s.sistance and gave them the Finns' name and address. No listing. He checked his file again for the name of the school where Brian Finn worked, and called the Buchanan Open Academy.

"Mr. Finn no longer works here," the secretary informed him.

What the h.e.l.l was going on? Did the Finns have the baby all along, and now had run off with her? Was the story about being scammed by Sheltering Arms a scam, too? Or had Sheltering Arms come back to the Finns after his visit, because they had coughed up the extra money?

Frank asked to speak to the princ.i.p.al, who became extremely chatty when he learned who Frank was. "It was the weirdest thing. He came into my office on Friday afternoon while I was out watching a field hockey game, and left a letter of resignation. No explanation, no two weeks' notice, nothing. I called his home and the number was disconnected. I drove by his house and there's a FOR SALE sign up, and no one answered the door.

"He's always been very reliable, because I gave him a break. With that a.s.sualt conviction he had, he couldn't have taught at a public school. I don't know what came over Brian."

Frank knew what had come over him: the lure of a healthy white infant. Never mind s.e.x or drugs or money-a baby had driven Brian and Eileen Finn to abandon their safe suburban life and go on the lam.

The princ.i.p.al sighed. "And I'm going to have a h.e.l.l of a time replacing him."

"Why's that?"

"He taught social studies, computer science, and coached lacrosse. That's a combination you don't find every day."

"He taught computer science, too?"

"Oh, yes, Brian was quite a whiz with computers."

Frank increased the tempo of the pencil he was tapping on his desk. So, when Brian had told him Sheltering Arms had disappeared into cybers.p.a.ce and couldn't be traced, maybe he'd been lying. Maybe Brian had the computer skills to locate the group. He should've gotten the state police computer guys involved-but who was he kidding? Meyerson would never have approved that request.

The Finns could be tracked down, though. After all, what did people like that know about creating a new ident.i.ty for themselves? They'd want the money from the sale of their house; they'd want to teach again. All it would take to find them was a little time and some resources.

23.

THE SMELL OF stale beer and fresh cigarette smoke engulfed Frank as he entered the Mountainside Tavern, looking for the men Sean Nevins had accused of vandalizing the trailer. The decor of the Mountainside was no decor at all. Bar stools covered in black Naugahyde, virtually every one marked with huge cracks oozing dingy stuffing, surrounded the big U-shaped bar. The linoleum floor had probably been new when Truman was in the White House. Lit solely by the glow of two color TVs suspended over the bar, and a large red neon Budweiser sign, games of pool, pinball, and darts were played largely by feel.

Frank groped his way to a seat at the bar, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He ordered a hamburger and a beer, and asked the bartender if he had seen Dan, Pete, or Richie recently.

"They turn up most nights around seven, seven-thirty."

Frank watched ESPN until, just as predicted, Dan Strohman sauntered in at 7:10. A few minutes later Pete and Richie plopped into bar stools beside their friend. Frank wasn't sure if they hadn't noticed him on the other side of the bar, or if they were avoiding eye contact. Soon they wandered over to the pool table. Frank followed them.

"Nice shot," Frank said as Richie sank a ball in the corner pocket.

Richie glanced up and smiled, but his next shot went wide of the mark.

"You guys working much up at the Extrom place these days?"

The three exchanged glances. Then Dan took elaborate care sizing up his shot, and Richie and Pete looked down at their feet. Honestly, they were like three six-year-olds standing next to a broken vase.

"They're doing the roofing now. Isn't that a specialty of yours, Pete?"

"Uh, yeah, I like to roof. But I'm busy now with another job."

"Where's that?"

"Um...um...Schroon Lake."

"What about you two?" Frank asked.

Dan and Pete eyed each other; then Dan slammed his pool cue down on the table. "Just spit it out! That f.a.g Nevins sent you here, didn't he?"

"He reported some vandalism-graffiti spray-painted on the work trailer. A threat to do more damage. I came here to warn you that wouldn't be a good idea."

"This ain't right! That p.r.i.c.k accuses us and you automatically believe him because he works for that rich a.s.shole, Extrom," Richie complained.

"The fact that Rollie Fister remembers selling Pete three cans of orange spray paint would tend to support Nevins's theory," Frank answered. "Let me give you a heads-up-experienced criminals usually buy their materials where they're not well-known."

Dan gave Pete a disgusted shove. "Nice work."

"We were p.i.s.sed that day when he fired us," Pete said sheepishly. "We wouldn't really do nothin' to the house."