"This is what we have on file."

He wrote numbers down on a notepad and handed the page to Beckeman.

"Address?"

On the drive to the Siddiqui brother's home, the FBI agents talked excitedly, but Scott sat in the back seat with a single thought in mind: I'm going to kill Abdul Siddiqui.

The phone numbers were no longer working, so they drove to the address. Stryker drove the sedan; Beckeman sat up front, Pea and the judge in the back. They pulled up to a house on Lorraine Avenue; it was on the other side of Highland Park, a long way from the SMU stadium. Too far to hear the band playing. The judge had told him about the music on the phone call. They knocked on the door, and an older woman answered in her night robe. Beckeman flashed his badge.

"Ma'am, I'm Agent Beckeman with the FBI. Do you know Abdul and Saddam Siddiqui?"

"Yes, I do. They're nice boys. Are they okay?"

"We're trying to locate them. Do they live here?"

"Not anymore. They rented the guesthouse out back, but they moved out before Christmas."

"Did they leave a forwarding address?"

"No. They didn't do anything wrong, did they?"

They returned to the sedan.

"How'd we miss them?" Pea asked.

"They moved."

"And they're law students," Stryker said. "Who'd figure law students for jihadists?" He was checking his iPad. "Here they are. We interviewed them back in November. They were clean. No criminal histories, no ties to any jihadist groups ..."

"They were tied to the Imam," Beckeman said.

"A lot of Muslim men prayed at the mosque." He tapped the iPad. "And we did a sneak and peek on the follow-up, just to make sure."

"When?" Beckeman asked.

"Ten days ago, after the judge was grabbed."

"But they haven't lived here since before Christmas."

Stryker frowned and checked the iPad again. "Oh, we didn't do it here. We did it at another house. On Drexel Drive."

Carlos and Bobby walked down the sidewalk on Drexel Drive.

"So if I meet a zombie," Carlos said, "I'll stab it in the head with my switchblade."

"You carry a switchblade?" Bobby said.

"You don't?"

Bobby regarded Carlos a moment then sniffed the air. "That you?"

"I didn't fart."

"Is that your aftershave?"

There was a sweet smell in the air. Carlos sniffed.

"No, man, that ain't me."

Carlos gave a suspicious look around and then above them. He pointed up.

"That's him."

Bobby looked up. A kid sat high on a limb in a big oak tree that hung over the sidewalk. Highland Park was known for its canopy of oak trees. But not for kids smoking dope in oak trees.

"What are you doing out here?" Bobby asked. "It's after midnight. And it's cold."

"I'm not cold," the kid said.

"Get down from that fucking tree," Carlos said.

"Fuck you," the kid said.

"I'm a cop. Undercover. Now get down."

"You don't look like a cop."

"That's why they call it undercover, you little dope."

"Let me see your badge."

Carlos flashed a badge to the boy but whispered to Bobby, "Got it at flea market. Figured it might come in handy one day."

The kid climbed down the tree. He looked about fifteen. He continued to suck on the joint.

"What do you want?" he said.

"We're looking for a couple of Arab dudes," Carlos said, "selling drugs to minors."

"Cool. Like on TV."

"Yeah. Like on TV. You seen anyone look like that around here?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Behind my house."

"What?"

"We've got a guesthouse out back. We rent it out to rich college kids. Since my dad left us to shack up with his secretary, we need the money. They pay my mom in cash, that way she doesn't have to pay taxes. It's the law."

"Is that so?" Bobby said.

"Yep. Mom said if Mexicans mowing the grass don't have to pay taxes on their cash, why should she?" He looked at Carlos. "No offense."

Carlos shrugged. "When I was roofing houses, we got paid in cash. I never paid a dime in taxes."

"What are their names?" Bobby asked.

"The Mexicans who mow our grass?"

That's why they call it dope.

"No. The Arabs living in your guesthouse."

"Ohh. Abdul and Saddam. They're law students."

"Just them two?"

"Yeah."

"You see anyone else with them? Maybe two girls?"

"We never see them. The guesthouse is behind the garage, can't see it from the street or the house. They come and go through the alley. I think all they do is study."

"They give you this dope?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"So I don't rat 'em out to my mom. They got a cat in the house."

"A cat?"

"Yeah. My mom has a strict no-pets policy. She'd kick them out if she knew. So they give me weed to keep my mouth shut."

"Extortion. A criminal in the making."

"Don't tell my mom, okay? She's already in therapy because of the divorce. This is my therapy."

The boy took a drag on the joint.

"Give me that." Carlos snatched the joint from the boy's mouth. "Smoking dope in front of a cop. This shit can fuck up your brain. Tell you what, I won't tell your mom if you get me a key to that guesthouse."

"A key?"

"Yeah, a key to the front door."

"Well ... okay."

The boy turned and ran into the house. Carlos shrugged and sucked on the joint. He inhaled, held it, and exhaled slowly.

"Good shit."

The boy returned with a key and gave it to Carlos.

"Give me my joint."

"Sorry, kid. Evidence. Now get your ass inside. And stay there."

The boy muttered, "Fucking cops," but went inside. Carlos finished off the joint, and Bobby called Scotty. The call was still ringing through when a black sedan drove up fast and stopped next to them. Scotty jumped out. Three FBI agents followed him out. Carlos dropped the joint and stomped it out.

"We walked right past this place," Scott said. "The first night we searched."

"You can't see the guesthouse from the street," Cat said.

Beckeman had snuck off to conduct a quick surveillance of the house. Scott stood on the sidewalk talking to Judge Herrin and the Latino guy named Carlos. Cat addressed Agent Stryker.

"We've been searching Highland Park for these girls since Thursday when we learned they were being held near SMU."

"You should've told us."

"Why didn't you tell me you had done a sneak and peek at a Highland Park house?"

"It was stated in a manhunt meeting."

"I didn't get that information."

Stryker nodded toward Scott then lowered his voice. "Maybe you were fucking the judge that morning."

Cat fought the urge to punch the bastard and was losing the fight when Beckeman returned. He shook his head in answer to their unasked question.

"It's dark. Shades are drawn. Can't see inside. Can't hear anything. They're probably asleep."

"The girls are in there," Scott said. "Let's go in. We've got a key."

"Maybe they're in there, maybe not. But maybe they booby-trapped the house. We hit a tripwire, we could blow the place up, kill everyone inside, including your daughters. We need to call in the pros."