Frank spotted a hawk circling, looking for a mouse or a toad in the tall meadow gra.s.s. He let his gaze rest there as Joe continued talking. "Once-she couldn't have been more than four years old-Mary Pat woke up feeling sick in the middle of the night. She ran down to the bathroom, but she didn't make it in time. She threw up in the hall. I heard a noise, and d'you know how I found her? On her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. And she said"-a sob choked his words-"she said, 'Don't worry, Daddy. I got it all cleaned up.' "

Frank found Joe's story a bit chilling. He saw the four-year-old Mary Pat as terrified, not considerate. Maybe the pa.s.sing of twenty-four years hadn't changed that at all.

Finally Joe spoke again. "So, I guess that settles it. The baby's adopted. No one needs to know about this."

"It's not quite that easy. I need to be certain of what happened to the baby. It would help to find the father."

Again, the look of shock and amazement. Poor Joe, the punches just kept coming. First the death, then the pregnancy, the deceit, and now the realization that s.e.x, too, had played a part in all this.

"Was she seeing anyone?" Frank asked, although he suspected if there had been some obvious candidate, Joe would have volunteered the name by now.

Joe's head wagged back and forth in an endless negative. "There was a fella, oh, it's more than two years ago now, over in Verona. Worked in the garage. Ann never cared for him, thought Mary Pat could do better. Eventually they stopped seeing each other."

Eventually. After Ann nagged and complained and pointed out the poor guy's every flaw, Frank thought. Not good enough, as if there were an endless string of brain surgeons and corporate lawyers just waiting for their chance with Mary Pat. The girl's life was coming into sharper focus, and he could see the little twists and turns that had led to her sad end.

Joe went on the offensive again. "Whoever the guy is, he's a b.u.m. You don't need to talk to him. The baby's adopted. It's a closed adoption. You gotta honor that."

"All we have is this letter-that's not proof the adoption went through," Frank said.

"It's enough for me." Joe glared at Frank from under bushy brows.

Mary Pat had understood her parents all too well. Apparently propriety meant more to them than knowing if the only grandchild they'd ever have was safe in a good home. Frank felt his patience begin to crumble. "Doesn't it bother you that she had the baby on her own? What kind of adoption agency would let her do that? These people could be responsible for Mary Pat's death."

Joe gazed off at the red and gold mountains outlined against the brilliant blue sky, then he burst into tears. His shoulders heaved and tears poured down his face, although he hardly made a sound.

Frank rooted desperately through his coat pockets looking for some tissues, and came up with two paper napkins from the carryout sandwich he'd eaten yesterday. He offered them in mute solace, regretting that he'd pushed so hard.

Joe mopped ineffectually at his red, swollen face. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "This has all been too much."

"It's okay," Frank answered, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. Probably he'd judged the man too harshly.

Joe had a good twenty years on him, but they were both the fathers of only daughters. Caroline had once said that the best thing and the worst thing about being an only child were the same: You were the sole focus of your parents' attention. And now Joe had lost that focus. Even worse, the good memories of times they had shared, which might have been a comfort to him, must now be tainted by the realization that for the last nine months, they had been living a lie.

The sound of the rushing brook grew louder as they walked toward it in silence. Frank was reluctant to start in again, although he knew he had to.

Joe seemed to sense it coming, because he let out all the stops. "Please, Frank, I'm begging you-leave this alone! Mary Pat's dead; nothing will bring her back." He grabbed both Frank's hands in his. "You're a father-imagine how you'd feel if this was your daughter, your wife. This will kill Ann." His eyes welled up with tears again. "Please help me."

You're a father-imagine how you'd feel. Unintentionally, Joe had echoed the words of another father, a father whom Frank had sympathized with a little too much, a father who'd turned out to be a killer. Frank had bungled that investigation in Kansas City, placing too much confidence in his instincts and not enough on proper procedure. It had cost him the job he loved-and while he might make other mistakes, he'd never again overlook what had to be done just to spare a man's feelings.

Frank pulled his hands back and shoved them in his pockets, then spoke without emotion. "When I get back to the office, I'll call the county social worker over in Elizabethtown and see what she knows about this Sheltering Arms agency. If the agency can prove to me that they did all they could to protect Mary Pat, and that the baby has been legally placed for adoption, that'll be the end of it. If not, you'd better prepare Ann for a full investigation."

Joe stared at him for a moment, then turned away to watch the brook rush over stones worn smooth by centuries of contact with the water.

"I'll be getting back to the office," Frank said finally, but Joe didn't even seem to hear. When Frank looked back from the top of the path, Joe still stood there with his shoulders hunched against the breeze.

All the way back to the office, Frank kicked himself for the way he'd handled Joe Sheehan. He shouldn't have been so harsh-he could have jollied him along a little. After all, the man was still in shock. But he just couldn't accept that Joe was more concerned with what the neighbors would say about all this than he was about the fate of his grandchild. Personally, he'd never given a s.h.i.t what any gossiping busybodies thought of him or his family. For that matter, he never cared much what his colleagues or even his bosses thought of him.

But that utter disregard for other people's opinions was not necessarily a good thing. He tried to put himself in Joe's shoes. It was natural for a father to want everyone to remember his daughter for her good qualities, not for the one big mistake she'd made in life.

Still, it all came back to the baby. He had to find out if the baby was safe, even if it meant hurting Joe and Ann Sheehan.

Frank parked his truck in front of the office and sat there for a minute, rubbing his temples. Maybe he could dump the whole mess in Trudy Ma.s.sinay's lap. He'd never had much use for the social workers he'd encountered in Kansas City-earnest young college girls with a yen to help the poor. But Trudy impressed him. She'd straightened out Ben and Laurie Hillier so that he didn't have to break up their fights every week, and if she could do that, she could do just about anything.

As he got out of the truck, he could see Earl pacing back and forth in front of the office window, talking on the phone. He hurried in, thinking the state police might be on the line. Coming through the door, he heard Earl's end of the conversation.

"How many miles does it have on it? A hundred and eighty thousand!"

Good Lord-no way would he let the kid take a car with that much mileage, even if they were giving it away.

"Well, I think I won't come to see it after all," Earl said, plopping down in his chair. "Thanks anyway."

"This sucks," he told Frank. "I'll never find a car."

Unbidden, a vision of a car popped into Frank's mind. A car that was in good condition. A car without many miles. A car that had always been driven responsibly. "You know, it dawns on me that I know a good car that's available."

"You do? What car?"

"Mary Pat Sheehan's. It's still sitting over at Al's. I don't think Joe's going to want to keep it."

Earl looked at Frank as if he had just suggested grave robbing. "What am I supposed to say? 'Sorry for your loss, Mr. Sheehan. Can I take Mary Pat's car off your hands?' "

"Well, I didn't mean you could get it right away. But mention it to Al. Eventually Al will ask Joe what to do with the car, and he'll let him know that you're interested. I bet you'll have that car by next week."

Earl looked squeamish. "But she died in it."

"It's not like there was any blood." Frank was about to tell him the cause of death, but there was no point in telling Earl about Mary Pat's condition until he spoke to Trudy. If she could verify the adoption, then he could keep Joe's secret. "Depends on how bad you want a car, I guess."

Earl sighed, but a few moments later he stood up. "Maybe I'll go over to Al's and just look at it."

Any other day Frank might have objected to this squandering of government time. But with Earl out of the way he could call Trudy in peace, so he tossed him the keys to his truck.

"Perfect timing, Frank!" Frank smiled as Trudy's sultry voice came over the phone line. She sounded like a cross between Miss October and a late-night jazz DJ. He'd been shocked the first time he met her in person: a broad bottom in corduroy pants, whose elastic waist rested right under her b.o.o.bs. Frank supposed she must be about his age, because the photos on her desk showed three kids in their late teens to early twenties. But she seemed so utterly maternal that she made him feel childlike.

"I have a few minutes to chat before the next problem arrives on my doorstep," Trudy continued.

"I think I am the next problem, Trudy. You did such a good job getting Ben Hillier going to AA, now I'm going to raise the bar for you. See if you can clear this mess up so easy." Frank proceeded to tell her the whole sorry tale of Mary Pat's pregnancy, and ended by reading her the letter.

Trudy let out a low whistle when he finished and Frank continued. "Joe wants to hush the whole thing up. He thinks this letter's proof enough that the baby's been adopted. But wouldn't an agency have given Mary Pat some counseling? Paid for her medical care? Why would she have the baby on her own, if she had an adoption all arranged?"

"You're right. Something's strange here," Trudy agreed. "Let's start by checking out this Sheltering Arms agency. It doesn't ring a bell, but I have a list here somewhere of all the adoption agencies licensed in New York." Frank could hear rustling in the background and pictured Trudy before the towering pile of loose papers and worn folders on the credenza behind her desk. Like a heron spotting a fish in the reeds, she could pluck out the file she needed.

In an instant she was back. "Nope. Not licensed in New York. Our state's adoption laws are quite rigorous, some would say restrictive. It's perfectly legal to surrender your baby to an out-of-state couple, but you'd still need an agency licensed in New York to handle the details on this end. And, of course, the baby has to have a birth certificate."

"So some agency other than Sheltering Arms would have to be involved?"

"For the adoption to conform to New York State law, yes. If I were you, I'd check the County Office of Vital Statistics here in Elizabethtown to see if the birth was registered. Then I'd track down this Sheltering Arms. I can give you a Web site that has a nationwide listing of licensed adoption agencies."

"Thanks for your help, Trudy. And you'll keep this quiet, right?"

"You can trust me. But don't be surprised if the talk has already started."

5.

MALONE'S DINER was famous for large portions and leisurely service, a combination that made grabbing a quick bite impossible. But Frank was encouraged by the number of empty seats at the counter. Sitting directly in Marge Malone's path between the kitchen and tables improved the odds of getting fed fast.

So hungry that he could no longer concentrate on the expanding quagmire of Mary Pat Sheehan and her baby, Frank had decided to break for lunch-but he was anxious to get back on the trail. The steps Trudy had advised him to take had made it more obvious that something wasn't kosher with this adoption. Just three births had been registered in Ess.e.x County last week, all of them to married parents, all of them in the hospital. And Sheltering Arms had not been listed as a licensed agency anywhere in the U.S.

Behind him at the window table sat two men he didn't recognize, talking intently to a woman wearing a sacky dress, woolen tights, and sandals: Beth Abercrombie. He shifted in his seat to catch a glimpse of her in the mirror that ran behind the counter.

Despite her outfit, Frank found Beth rather attractive, although there was no one in town he would have admitted it to. He barely admitted it to himself. Even after three years as a widower, Frank still thought of himself as married. Often he was quite shocked to find himself alone. Just the other day he had awakened and reached out for Estelle. Not finding her in bed, he had sleepily lain back in the covers, waiting for the smell of the coffee and pancakes she would fix him to coax him out of bed. But the smell never came; there was no cheerful clatter of pots and dishes, no singing with the radio. He had jolted wide awake with the terrible realization that Estelle was dead.

Now, almost against his will, Frank's gaze slipped above his menu and studied Beth Abercrombie in the mirror. Her thick honey-blond braid, coiled into a crown, balanced her strong-featured profile. A lifetime of outdoor pursuits had marked her fair skin with some fine lines around the eyes and mouth, which she declined to mask with makeup. When she gestured, her loose sleeves fell back to reveal strong arms covered with a light blond down. A potter and weaver, Beth owned a small craft shop catering to Canadians and downstaters. After twenty years in Trout Run, she knew everyone and everyone knew her. Still, she was decidedly "not from around here."

Over the clatter of dishes and the beat of country music on the radio, Frank strained to hear what Beth and the men were talking about. The better looking of the pair was about fifty, with dark wavy hair graying at the temples. He spoke in a low murmur that Frank couldn't make out. Beth seemed to be hanging on his every word, which Frank found unaccountably irritating.

The other man, with a bushy beard and a rumpled blue suit, spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Of course, this kind of development would never be permitted by the Adirondack Park Agency today, but that operation has been there since right after World War II. It's grandfathered."

Frank's attention drifted back to the Sheehan case. He knew he needed help from the state police, but antic.i.p.ated resistance from Lew Meyerson, the regional barracks commander. Lew would say there wasn't clear evidence of any crime. Lew would claim he couldn't spare the resources. Frank closed his menu without ever having read it and mentally ran through the arguements he could make.

"He doesn't need to rape the land to put bread on his table." Bushy Beard's voice rose, and Frank could see the flash of his waving hands in the mirror. "It's time the people of this town realize that he's exploiting them."

Raping? Exploiting? What the h.e.l.l were they talking about? Frank turned and stared openly at the window table, as did some other diners.

Beth's green eyes met his. She smiled, but he noticed her foot move under the table. The volume of the conversation at the window table dropped dramatically.

Marge chose that moment to lumber up. "Made up your mind, Frank?"

"Uh..." He hesitated, still eavesdropping. "We'll see to that," he thought he heard the other man say.

"Frank!" Marge tapped her pencil on the waiting pad.

"How about liver and onions?"

"That was yesterday's special."

"Oh. Well then, you better give me today's special." Fifteen minutes later a plate of stuffed cabbage challenged Frank to choose between starvation and indigestion. With some regret, he picked the latter.

Frank had hit upon a brilliant strategy for getting Lieutenant Meyerson to do what he wanted: He'd sent Earl to do the dirty work. Try as he might, Frank could never manage to request anything from Meyerson; the words always came out sounding like an order. Then Meyerson would get his back up and Frank would respond in kind, and they'd be caught in a ridiculous deadlock from which neither would back down.

Earl, on the other hand, was genuinely terrified of the state police lieutenant. He couldn't say good morning to the man without it sounding like a plea for mercy. So Frank had sent Earl into the lion's den with the letter from Brian and Eileen, and told him to ask Meyerson to get the crime lab guys to dust it for prints. It was a long shot that a letter from some prospective adoptive parents would yield fingerprints that would match those in the system, but what else did he have to go on?

Earl had been gone for well over two hours. Frank was just about to call the state police headquarters, when the kid stumbled through the office door and collapsed into his chair.

"How did it go?" Frank asked.

"He said there was no clear indication any crime had been committed. He said the likelihood of lifting usable prints from a paper that had been handled was very slim. He said the lab was all backed up with important cases." Earl paused for breath. "He said he'd have the results for us on Monday."

"Brilliant work, Earl! I'm proud of you."

"You owe me big time, Frank."

"Anything. Name it."

"You promised you'd help me study for the police academy entrance exam," Earl reminded him. He'd failed the test the first time he took it.

"Be glad to."

"And beer. Lots of beer."

Frank grinned. "All right-we'll study at the Mountainside."

6.

NUMBER 12 HAWTHORNE LANE was in one of the new developments springing up on the farmland all around Albany. Frank was on his way there, because, despite all of Meyerson's protests, the letter to Mary Pat had yielded a print that matched on ten of sixteen points to one Brian Finn: a man who had a felony a.s.sault conviction twenty-two years ago, but had not been in trouble since. Meyerson's report came with all sorts of caveats about the match not being close enough to hold up in court, but it was good enough to convince Frank to make the two-hour drive south.

He realized as he steered the patrol car through the twisting drives and cul-de-sacs that all the streets were named after authors: Melville Drive, Alcott Court, Whitman Place. Cute. The houses were cute, too, each with their developer-issued tree and regulation five shrubs; most with an expensive swing set in the backyard. Twenty years of wear and tear would reveal the quality of the workmanship that went into them, but right now the neighborhood was bright with the hopefulness of young families just starting out.

The woman who answered the door at 12 Hawthorne Lane looked to be in her early thirties. Everything about her radiated crispness: the short, styled hair, the rosy lipstick, the creased slacks. Despite the fact that a uniformed cop stood on her doorstep, she faced Frank through the gla.s.s storm door with unquestioning friendliness. Her husband might be a convicted felon, but she showed no sign of animosity.

"Eileen Finn?"

"Yes."

"My name is Frank Bennett. I'm chief of police in a town upstate-Trout Run." He produced his ID, which she scanned briefly, without anxiety. "I wonder if you can help me with an inquiry I'm working on?"

"I'll be happy to try."

"I'm looking into a matter concerning the Sheltering Arms adoption agency. I believe you may have dealt with them?"

The smile on Eileen Finn's face disappeared. "My husband's not home right now. Maybe you should come back later." She edged backward, her hand on the doork.n.o.b.

"I just have a few questions. Can I come in?" Obviously he'd hit on something, but he kept his tone bland.

"Do you have a search warrant?"

"I only want to talk to you. If you want me to shout my questions through the storm door, that's fine," Frank replied with a pointed glance at the neighbor's open windows.