She opened the door grudgingly, and Frank followed her into a living room every bit as clean and crisp as Eileen herself. The curtains matched the chairs, a framed seascape hung squarely over the sofa, and the flawless pale carpeting made Frank feel that he should have taken off his shoes. Was this lead really going to pan out? New parents were usually haggard from sleep deprivation; their homes a riot of baby paraphernalia.

Eileen Finn sat huddled in a corner of the striped sofa watching him. He felt as welcome as a racc.o.o.n who'd gnawed his way into her attic.

He plunged in. "Do you know a young woman named Mary Pat Sheehan?"

She looked at him blankly. "No."

"I found a letter in her bedroom that was signed Brian and Eileen, and has Brian's fingerprint on it. What can you tell me about that?"

"I...we wrote a letter to prospective birth mothers, telling them that we wanted to adopt." She straightened up a little and tried to project more confidence. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"No, nothing at all," Frank agreed. "Except this particular birth mother is dead, and we're trying to find the baby. Do you know what happened to it?"

Eileen Finn's makeup stood out as garish splotches on a face that was suddenly drained of all its natural color. He'd pegged her age at about thirty, but now he saw lines that hadn't been noticeable when her cheerful facade was intact.

"The girl we wrote to-the birth mother-is dead?" she asked in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

Frank nodded. "No one knew she was pregnant, and she had the baby without any medical help. A few days later she died from complications of childbirth. We have no indication of what happened to the baby, other than your letter. We want to know that the baby is all right. Is the baby here?"

Frank's question unleashed a torrent of sobs from Eileen. At that moment Frank heard a door open and close in the back of the house and a man's voice cheerfully calling, "I'm home."

Frank scowled. What timing-he would have much preferred continuing to talk to Eileen alone, but there would be no way to separate a crying woman from her husband.

A burly man with close-cropped sandy hair appeared in the doorway. "Eileen! What's wrong? What's going on?"

Eileen nodded toward Frank. "He wants to know about Sheltering Arms. The birth mother we wrote to died after she had the baby. They found our letter because it had your fingerprint on it."

Brian dropped onto the sofa and put his elbows on his knees, propping his head up with his hands.

"The baby?" Frank asked again.

"We saw her ten days ago," Brian explained. "She was fine then. But we don't have her now; they took her back."

"They? Who's they?"

Brian groaned. "This mess just keeps getting worse and worse. This is what happens when you try to pull an end-run around the rules." Frank felt sorry for them, but he wanted the whole story. "Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me everything."

Brian stood up and began to pace. "Eileen and I tried to have a baby for ten years. We finally decided to adopt. Thought it would be no big deal. We're good people, have a nice home. So we go to the adoption agency-"

"Sheltering Arms?" Frank interrupted.

"Oh, no, this was a real agency. That's when we found out we weren't eligible to adopt." Brian sighed. "If you traced me through a fingerprint, I guess you know I have a record for a.s.sault. In high school I had this girlfriend-we were obsessed with each other. After graduation we ran away and got married. It was two years of pure insanity. We drank and took drugs and lived like b.u.ms. One day we got in a fight over another man we were crashing with. I tried to punch him and she got between us and I knocked her out cold. I got arrested, and my family couldn't afford the kind of lawyer that can get you out of situations like that, so I pleaded guilty to get probation. So I now have a record for spousal abuse, and the law in New York says you can't adopt if you were ever convicted of abusing your wife or a child. That one mistake I made as a kid keeps us from having a family."

Eileen mopped her face with the sleeve of her yellow sweater. "It's so unfair. Brian is the kindest, gentlest man. He'd make a great father. That's why we decided to follow an, uh, alternative route."

"How did you get from the agency who told you you didn't qualify to Sheltering Arms?"

"We started to do some research on the Internet," Brian explained. "We found out that if we located our own birth mother, one who said she wanted us to raise her baby, we might be able to move ahead with an adoption-maybe in a state where the rules aren't as strict. We didn't have the slightest idea how to go about finding a birth mother. But one of these adoption Web sites had a chat room where you could ask questions, share your frustrations, that sort of thing. So we posted a few times, and the next thing you know, we got this e-mail from Sheltering Arms."

"They contacted you?"

"Yeah. I guess that should've been our first clue that something wasn't right. But it sounded so perfect. They said they had a birth mother who wouldn't care about my past-she just wanted loving parents for her child. All we had to do was write a letter that described ourselves and how we'd raise the child. If she liked us, she'd be willing to say in the paperwork that she wanted us to have the baby, and they would arrange everything else."

"So Mary Pat agreed that you should adopt her baby. How long ago was that?"

"August-she was pretty far along in her pregnancy. We were thrilled that it was going so fast," Eileen explained. "We paid Sheltering Arms ten thousand dollars to pay for the mother's medical expenses."

Frank scowled. Mary Pat's medical expenses had amounted to the buck ninety-eight she'd spent on Tylenol the day before she died.

Brian took over the story. "Two weeks ago we got a call that the baby had been born on September seventeenth. We met a woman named Betty in a park outside of Glens Falls, about fifty miles north of here. She brought Sarah-that's what we were going to name her-so we could see that she was healthy."

Eileen spoke in a dreamy, faraway voice. "She was beautiful, perfect. With big dark eyes and a headful of black hair and the longest, most delicate little fingers." She wiped her eyes with a shredded tissue. "Betty let us spend all afternoon with Sarah. We fed her and changed her. We walked her in her stroller and people smiled at us and asked how old she was. One lady told me how good I looked-" Eileen choked, her face crumpled, and she started crying with the wholehearted abandon of a small child.

Brian put his arm around her and pulled her close. "At the end of the day Betty told us she had to take the baby back until all the paperwork was completed, but then she would be all ours." He snorted. "That night when I got home, there was an e-mail from Sheltering Arms saying that the mother had experienced unusual medical expenses, and we'd have to pay another fifty thousand if we wanted Sarah. When I replied that we just didn't have that kind of money, they said they were going to have to place her with someone else."

"We believed them," Eileen said. "I mean, things can go wrong. We knew we were taking a risk when we sent our money to Sheltering Arms-that there were no guarantees-but what other choice did we have? They told us that for another ten thousand, we could try for another baby-one with no problems. We were actually considering it."

"You were considering it," Brian corrected. "I thought they were tempting us with that baby. They tried to get us hooked, then upped the amount we had to pay to get her."

Eileen gnawed on her thumbnail. "You were right, Brian. The birth mother never received any medical help at all. That poor girl died because she had the baby outside of a hospital-" She buried her head in her husband's shoulder.

Frank stood and began to pace around the living room. There was no hard evidence that the baby the Finns had been shown was Mary Pat's baby, but the timing was right. "So, who has that baby now?"

Brian scowled. "Someone who didn't flinch at coughing up a lot more money than we have, apparently."

"We ought to be able to trace Sheltering Arms through the money," Frank said. "How did you pay them the first ten thousand?"

"By wire transfer to a bank in the Cayman Islands. All our dealings with them were electronic. We never met or spoke to anyone."

"Except this Betty," Frank said. "Can you describe her?"

Brian shrugged. "She was pretty average. Older than us. Brown hair, eyes...I don't know, brown, maybe gray. Medium height, not heavy. Frankly, we were so excited about the baby, we hardly looked at Betty."

"What about the letter you wrote? How did you get that to Mary Pat?"

"They said the letter should be handwritten-more personal-and that we should include a photo. We mailed it to a P.O. box in New York City."

Frank rose with a sigh. Hard to believe that people who seemed as reasonable as the Finns could be so gullible. "Well, get me that address, the e-mail address, and the wire-transfer address. We'll get to work tracking them down."

Brian sighed. "You can have them, but somehow I doubt it'll do you any good. I think Sheltering Arms is gone, and our money is gone."

Eileen pulled her tear-streaked face away from her husband's shoulder. "Who are these people? What are they going to do with Sarah?"

"They'll probably use her to lure another couple," Frank answered. "See how much money they can get from them."

"But this is so unfair to Sarah," Eileen pleaded. "She's just a baby. She needs a mom and dad."

Though Frank knew the Finns were suffering, he couldn't help feeling they were partly responsible for this mess. Now that the game they'd been playing had turned against them, they were worried about Sarah. But when they'd thought they would win, they hadn't minded gambling on that baby.

He looked at the couple: Eileen trembling, Brian morose. "I suppose she'll get parents eventually," he told them. "When her usefulness has been maxed out."

7.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND-why aren't the Finns getting this baby?"

"I have someone else who's willing to pay more. I gave the Finns an opportunity to match the offer. They couldn't do it."

"I don't like it. It's asking for trouble."

"If you don't like the way I do business, maybe you should go to work for a real adoption agency. I wonder what that pays?"

"Don't threaten me. You need me."

"And you need me."

Frank had planned on driving down to the Finns' and back the same day, but after he left their house, a terrible weariness came over him. He spent two hours in a dark little roadside tavern, nursing a beer and thinking.

How had Mary Pat connected with Sheltering Arms? The Sheehans didn't have a computer. He supposed Mary Pat could have used one at the library in Lake Placid, or at the county college. If she had, would he be able to trace it? Would they be able to track down the agency again on the Web? He didn't relish the prospect of hours in front of a computer screen, using search engines to come up with seventy-nine thousand possible sites to check out. Earl could help with that-his patience was limitless.

He thought about Mary Pat's baby, who had been a faceless infant but now was a little girl named Sarah. He found it perversely rea.s.suring to know she was such a valuable commodity; her monetary worth meant she'd be kept safe. But Sheltering Arms had allowed Mary Pat to deliver without medical attention, so maybe the baby hadn't been examined by a doctor. Anything could go wrong-he remembered Caroline needing special treatments for jaundice in the days after she was born.

Would these con artists even recognize a problem if Sarah wasn't healthy? They might know their way around the Internet and off-sh.o.r.e banking, but would they realize if she wasn't eating right? And how long could Sarah be shunted around to different caregivers before that treatment took its toll?

By the time he came out of the tavern, the sun had set, his head was pounding, and the Motel 6 across the highway looked irresistibly inviting. Despite the lumpy mattress and musty-smelling sheets, Frank slept soundly. He leaped out of bed the next morning, shocked to see "7:30" blinking in red on the bedside clock. Heading north at top speed, he exited the North-way by nine-thirty.

As his patrol car crested the hill, the long sweep of Route 73 leading into Keene Valley, just west of Trout Run, unrolled before him. Pockets of mist still swirled in the low areas as the sun began its climb. The car picked up speed as it coasted down, and Frank's mind glided along, unshackled yet by the problems of the day. Luckily, his unconscious reflexes were still engaged. When a man shot out of the parking area near the Giant trailhead and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms, Frank slammed on the brakes and the patrol car skidded to a stop, close enough to spray the man with gravel.

Frank jumped out of the car ready to yell.

"Oh, man! Thank G.o.d you came along!" He was a stocky man in his late thirties, and his words came in bursts between gulps of breath. "There's a guy up there on the trail. Oh, man, I think he's dead."

Frank put a steadying hand on the hiker's shaking shoulders. "Okay, slow down. What's your name? Where is this man?"

"Only about a quarter of a mile up the trail. My name's Milton Miyashiro. I just came up here from New Jersey for a couple of days of hiking. I camped on Giant last night, and I was on my way down when I found this guy lying facedown on the trail. I thought about giving him CPR. But, I don't know, there's blood; I think it's too late."

Frank radioed for an ambulance and the state police, and told Milton to come with him back up the trail.

The lower part of the trail was neither steep nor rocky, and Frank made good time even though he wasn't dressed for hiking.

"I think we're getting close," Milton said. A moment later they turned a bend in the trail. Sprawled across the trail lay the body of a man.

"You okay?" Frank asked Milton, whose face looked gray behind a two-day stubble of beard. He didn't wait for a reply before dropping to his knees to examine the man on the trail, who lay on his side with his left arm pinned beneath him.

A quick exam told him the ambulance would be making a trip to the morgue, not the emergency room. The body was dry and still warm-it certainly hadn't lain there all night. A bloodstain radiated out from the center of the man's chest, darkening his blue anorak, and blood had soaked into the hardpacked earth of the trail. "You turned him like this?" Frank asked.

"Yeah. I'm sorry if I shouldn't have. But he was facedown, and I thought he had fallen, or had a heart attack or something. I thought maybe I could help."

"It's all right." Crouching, Frank looked at the man's back. He grunted at the sight of a small, perfect hole through the back of the jacket.

"What is it?" Milton asked. "How did he die?"

"He was shot."

"Like, by a hunter?"

This was no hunting accident. The entrance wound was so tiny, it had to come from a small-caliber handgun at very close range. Frank felt his heart rate ratchet up a bit, the way it always had when he was called to the scene of a murder in Kansas City. But this wouldn't be his case. The death had occurred on a trail in the Adirondack Park, so the state police would investigate.

Still, he studied the dead man: expensive but well-worn hiking boots, fancy sports watch, Gortex anorak, a f.a.n.n.y pack. Definitely a tourist, yet the face, slack and expressionless in death, seemed familiar. The baseball cap had slipped back, revealing dark, wavy hair streaked with silver. Then it came to him-this was the man who had been talking to Beth Abercrombie at Malone's.

Lieutenant Lew Meyerson barked out orders like the Marine sergeant he once had been. The woods crawled with crime-scene investigators. Dr. Hibbert had arrived to confirm that the body was indeed dead. Uniformed troopers directed traffic and sent away prospective hikers. Frank sat seething on the sidelines with Milton Miyashiro.

Instead of thanking him for securing the crime scene and keeping the witness close by, Meyerson had reamed him out for approaching the body at all. He wouldn't let Frank return to his office until he'd debriefed him, but he was taking his sweet time about it. Frank knew he was being reprimanded and it really ticked him off.

Finally Meyerson approached the patrol car, where Frank leaned with his arms folded across his chest. The lieutenant signaled Milton over, too.

"All right. What time was it when you discovered the body?" Meyerson demanded.

Milton looked at Frank and shrugged. "I don't know. Did you look at your watch?"

"It was nine-forty when you flagged me down. Had you been standing there long?"

"No, I tried to stop one other truck, but he pa.s.sed me by. Then you came along."

"Okay. So it took you how long to get down the trail?"

"Less than ten minutes."

"Then you came upon the body at approximately nine-thirty," Meyerson clarified. "Did you pa.s.s anyone on the trail?"

"No. I was the only one camping at the lean-to. And no one else came up the trail as I was coming down."

"Did you hear anything? Shouts? Screaming? The shot?" Meyerson asked.

Milton looked perplexed.

"It would have just sounded like a loud pop," Frank explained, despite Meyerson's glare.

"If I heard it, it sure didn't make an impression."

"And you found the body in what position?" Meyerson asked.

"Facedown, in the middle of the trail. I rolled him partway over because I thought he might've hit his head or had a heart attack or something. But when I saw all the blood on his chest, and he had no pulse, I just left him alone." Milton looked at Meyerson for rea.s.surance, but the lieutenant only grimaced.