"Cold Case" - читать интересную книгу автора (White Stephen)

PART ONE. The Dead French Detectives.

The phone call that summoned us to D.C. came on a Friday evening in April. I was busy playing Frisbee with some pizza dough and Lauren was slicing garlic so thin it was translucent. Her hands were less sticky than mine were so she answered the phone.

A moment later, with real surprise in her tone, she said, "Hi, A. J. No, no, no.

You're not interrupting anything. Really. We're just throwing some dinner together… Yes, in our new kitchen, it's wonderful. It's good to hear from you… We're doing fine, thanks. You?"

I smiled. The only A. J. I knew was A. J. Simes, a retired FBI psychologist.

The previous year she had been instrumental in helping me identify and track down someone who was eager to kill me. Before the adventure was over she had saved my life. Lauren and I had only heard from her once since she had left Colorado and returned to her home in Virginia.

"You still in touch with Milt Custer, A. J.?" Lauren asked. Milt was also retired FBI, and had been A. J.'s colleague the previous fall.

A. J.'s response to the Milt Custer inquiry took a while. Milt, a Chicago widower, had been sweet on A. J. during their sojourn together in Colorado. I fondly recalled his awkward flirting. But Lauren's next words yanked me back to the present.

"You want our help with something?… Both of us?… Of course I'll listen.

Should Alan get on an extension? Good, yes… Hold on." Lauren covered the mouthpiece and said, "It's A. J. Simes. She wants our help with something. Why don't you get on the cordless and listen in to what she has to say?"

I grabbed the other phone from the front hallway and A. J. and I greeted each other. Immediately after the pleasantries she asked, "Have either of you ever heard of a man named Edmond Locard?" I said no. Lauren said she thought the name was familiar.

"Well, have you ever heard of an organization called Locard? It is, of course, named after Edmond Locard. He, by the way, was a nineteenth-century French police detective." We both said no, though Lauren had begun nodding her head as though she was remembering something about him.

A. J. sighed.

"Does the name Vidocq ring any bells? An organization called the Vidocq Society?"

"Yes," I replied.

"I've read something about them. It'sum a volunteer organization of law enforcement officers and-what?-forensic specialists and prosecutors who try to assist local police in solving old crimes. Murders and kidnappings mostly.

They've been quite successful, haven't they?"

"That's right, they have. Very good, Alan. Well, Locard is a group similar to the Vidocq Society and has similar goals, though a slightly, mmm, shall we say, different philosophy and approach. I am one of the founding members. We are not as well known as Vidocq, which is mostly by design. Our members are not as prominent. That, too, is partly by design. But as an organization we are very effective. The reason I'm calling is that we in Locard have just made a decision to consider involving ourselves with a case that involves a crime that occurred in Colorado over ten years back but that also has some intriguing contemporary Colorado connections. I suggested to our screening committee that I thought you could both be of some help in our efforts. You, Lauren, could advise us on the lay of the local prosecutorial landscape. And you, Alan, could help me with some aspects of the case that might involve your clinical skills.

The screening committee has already looked-discreetly, I assure you-into your backgrounds and authorized me to invite you both to consider assisting us on the case.

Should the case develop as we anticipate it will, you would each bring an important local perspective to our investigation." A. J. told us little more that evening. She did explain that our participation was purely voluntary, and that we would not be remunerated for our time or for our expenses except for extraordinary travel costs, which would need to be approved in advance by the director of Locard.

We looked at each other and shrugged. Lauren told her that we would be happy to consider her request. A. J. explained that we would need to come to Washington, D.C." at least once and possibly twice or more but that the Colorado family that was imploring Locard to investigate the crime had agreed to provide transportation for the initial visit.

"When would this be?" Lauren asked.

"The first meeting is a week from tomorrow. You would need to be at Jefferson County Airport at six o'clock in the morning. That's close to your home, right?

I'm told that it is."

"Yes, it's close enough."

"There will be a plane waiting for you there at a facility called…" She hesitated and I heard papers ruffle. "… Executive Air. The family name is Franklin. You should be back in Colorado the same day if you're lucky. Midday Sunday at the latest. If you're required to stay over, someone will make sleeping arrangements."

"And you'll be there, A. J.? At the meeting?" I asked.

"Yes, definitely. And one last thing."

We waited.

"Please don't tell anyone we've talked. Discretion is important. Essential.

Agreed?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't want us to tell Sam," I said, a few moments after we hung up the phone. Sam Purdy was a Boulder police detective and a good friend. A. J. had become acquainted with him the previous autumn, too.

"I got that impression, too," Lauren agreed.

"Any idea why?" I shook my head.

"Secrecy is its own reason. Can you finish making the pizza? I want to check some of this out on the Internet."

I sat down at the kitchen table fifteen minutes later.

"There isn't much about Locard as a group. A little about Edmond Locard as an individual. But the Vidocq Society has its own Web page. Lot of heavy hitters are members. You know, CNBC types-the kind of people who had endless opinions about Monica Lewinsky. Some people who testified in the O. J. trial. Vidocq has a fancy meeting room in a town house in Philadelphia. There's some blurb on their Web page about 'cuisine and crime."

Apparently, they have fancy lunches while they sit around and discuss old crimes. The Web page makes it sound like some kind of club. A regular crime-fighters' Rotary."

Though Lauren was drinking water, she handed me a glass of red wine.

"While you were on the computer I remembered where I'd heard his name before.

Locard. He's the man responsible for what detectives and crime-scene specialists call Locard's Exchange Principle. Its the foundation for the science behind trace evidence.

Locard's the one who theorized that when any two objects came in contact or stay in close proximity for an extended period, something, some material, either visible or microscopic, will always be exchanged between the two objects."

I smiled. "That's about all I learned on the Net, too. That and that Locard worked in Lyons. Can you believe we agreed to do this?"

"Yeah, I can. I think it sounds fascinating. I'm more surprised that we were asked. Let's face it, Alan, our national reputation as crime fighters is, shall we say… nonexistent. I suspect that A. J. has an agenda that we don't know about."

"Do you think it will take up much of our time?"

She shrugged.

"I know a couple of people who have done this sort of thing before. My impression is that its more of a consultation thing. I don't think it will be too bad. Anyway, we owe A. J. big-time."

"Yes. We do owe A. J. big-time." I lifted the pizza to my mouth.

"Gosh we make good pizza, don't we?"

We were in.

Our flight from Jefferson County Airport in Colorado to Washington National was on a private jet that had room to seat ten or so, depending on how many people squeezed onto the leather sofa in the center of the plane. On this nonstop, though, Lauren and I had been the only passengers. The whole private-jet, flight-attendant-acting-like-a-butler thing had led us to conclude chat we would be greeted on the tarmac at the airport by a shiny black limo with a liveried driver, or at the very least a Town Car with a chauffeur. Instead, as we descended the stairs from the Gulfstream and collected our bags from our always solicitous flight attendant, Ms. Anderson, we stood alone on the macadam watching the approach of a bright yellow fuel truck. After a minute or so one of the pilots followed us off the plane and suggested we might want to retreat to the waiting area that was inside the office of the company that was going to service the plane.

We were almost to the office doors when a voice behind us called out, "Yo. Al?

Laurel?"

The experience of traveling cross-country on a private jet had left me feeling impervious to discourtesy. I turned and smiled and said, "Yes?"

The man behind us seemed out of breath. He was wearing flower-print shorts, old Tevas, and a dirt brown T-shirt that was so faded I couldn't discern what had once been silk-screened on it. I pegged his age at around thirty-five.

"Whoa, glad I caught up with you. Traffic is something for a Saturday and I thought I was supposed to go to the terminal to get you. Had to find my way out here by Braille, I swear. Anyway, I'm your wheels. This way." He pointed behind him, pausing only to glance up at the Gulfstream and add, "Nice ride. Is it yours?"

He didn't wait to hear my reply, which was an amused "Hardly." We followed him to a red four-door Passat and loaded our own luggage into a trunk that was half-full of nylon ropes and harnesses, all neatly bundled. Lauren and I glanced knowingly at each other, recognizing the accoutrements of a rock climber.

Lauren patted herself gently on the bulge that barely protruded from her lower abdomen and urged me into the front seat. Our driver lowered some narrow sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes and said," I'm Claven, russ Claven, by the way. I guess I should welcome you, at least unofficially, to the ranks of Clouseau. So… hey… welcome to Clouseau." He affected a pseudo French accent for his final pronunciation of Clouseau, and completed his welcome by saluting us in a quasi-military fashion.

"I'm Alan Gregory. This is my wife, Lauren Crowder. And… did you say Clouseau?" I asked.

"We were expecting to be met by somebody from a group called Locard."

He laughed with a robust roar that came straight from his belly.

"Clouseau… Locard… Vidocq. They're all just dead French detectives, right?" He laughed again, enamored with his own joke.

"Some of us affectionately call the group Clouseau. You like The Pink Panther?

Personally I think Sellers is hilarious.

"Does your dog bite?" was hilarious, anyway. You guys ever do the dead pool? Do they do that in Colorado? I do it every year. I almost won that year-the year that Sellers died? If Sinatra had kicked on time, it would have been mine. And John Paul? The man seems immortal. I had him on my list every year until they put him on the zombie list. I got Sonny Bono right, though, if you can believe it. Just a premonition on that one. But I always pick the wrong dead Kennedy.

Seems one dies every year but the rules say you have to pick the right one to get the points. And I can't tell you how many votes I wasted on Bob Hope before he got added to the cast of Night of the Living Dead."

I waited for him to pause for breath. He didn't.

"Anyway, welcome. You know the District at all? We meet in a place in Adams Morgan. Not too far. Then again, not too close." He hit the accelerator with great force, as though he were trying to kill a roach that was camping out on the pedal.

"Tell me. Which one of you is the shrink and which is the DA?"

Lauren clenched the armrest with one hand and my shoulder with the other as she identified herself as the deputy DA.

"Boulder, right? Colorado?"

"Yes," Lauren responded, her voice tentative. I could tell she knew what was coming.

"Did you do Jonbenet? Was that yours? And was it as crapped up as everybody says it was?" "It wasn't mine," she said, smiling insincerely.

"I was totally out of the loop on that one."

"You must hear things, though, right? That DA of yours pointing at the camera and saying he's gonna get his man. I loved it. Loved it. I have a friend who started calling him Wyatt Burp."

I knew Lauren desperately wanted Russ Claven to drop the Jonbenet questions. To my surprise, he did. I couldn't decide whether he was displaying some sensitivity to Lauren's discomfort or whether he suffered from a congenitally short attention span.

Claven drove the Passat aggressively. Lauren and I learned quickly that the German car accelerated with elan and thank God braked efficiently. He took us into the city across the Arlington Bridge and circled the Lincoln Memorial at a speed that made me grateful for centrifugal force.

"I'm avoiding construction," he explained as he downshifted and accelerated up Twenty-third, as though he feared I was going to question his choice of routes or argue the charge on the meter.

The morning in the capital was bright and warm. In some kind of seasonal time warp, Lauren and I had advanced a month further into spring by leaving Boulder, flying across country, and descending to sea level. She tapped me on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the Tidal Basin and the sea of pink-white cherry blossoms. I heard her whisper, "Maybe we'll have time tomorrow."

I somehow doubted it.

In the next few minutes I recognized the fleeting images of the State Department, Washington Circle, and Dupont Circle, but we were soon traveling through the narrow, car-lined streets of an urban D.C. neighborhood that I'd never visited before. The way our driver was looking around from side to side I had the feeling he hadn't been here a whole lot, either.

"Parking's always a bitch around here, especially on weekends. Too many college kids live in this neighborhood. None of them are even up this early on Saturday morning, so none of them have moved their cars." The DJ on the car radio announced the time. In mock horror, Claven repeated, " Twelve-seventeen? Shit, were late. God I hope the sandwiches aren't gone. I'm starving. Man can't live on potato salad alone."

He squeezed the Passat into an impossibly small spot between a bread truck and a Chevy Impala that should have been in a museum, then removed the plastic faceplate from the front of his car stereo and slid it into the glove compartment. He apparently noticed my questioning stare and explained, "This isn't the best neighborhood in a city that's known for not having the best neighborhoods. Why do I leave it in the glove compartment, you ask? I figure that if they bother to steal the whole car, the thieves deserve a radio that works, don't you think? I mean, I could carry it with me, but what good does the front panel of a car stereo do me after my car is gone?"

For two blocks we followed Claven on foot, at a distance. We hung back mostly because we were weighed down with our carry-ons and couldn't keep up with him.

Finally, he ducked into the arched doorway of a stately old stone warehouse. He paused for a split second; I thought he wanted to be certain we were still on his trail. Once inside the building, there was again no sign of him.

Lauren said, "Poof. He disappeared."

"Back here," he yelled.

"Behind the mailboxes."

Behind the wall of mailboxes was a beautifully carved oak door. Behind that door was a tiny elevator. Claven called for the car with a key, escorted us inside, pulled the oak door shut, and tugged the gate closed. The elevator was about the size of a vertical coffin, sans satin.

"Can you get to that button?" he asked me.

"Which one?"

"There's only one button. Just lean against the wall until the elevator starts moving." I did. It did.

The elevator was patient. Russ Claven was not. He tapped his foot the whole time we were ascending. He was humming something by Bruce Springsteen. I couldn't remember the title, but thought Russ was carrying the tune quite well.

Finally, I remembered the name of the song. It was "Pink Cadillac."

After a long, slow ride we exited directly into the foyer of someone's loft.

Claven walked past us into a huge open room and explained, "This is Kimber Listers house. Mr. Lister has good taste and the resources to indulge it.

Family money."

Lauren was taking in the beautiful furnishings. She said, "Indeed he does. What floor are we on, Mr. Claven?" She had moved her gaze to a southern wall of metal-rimmed square-paned windows that revealed an admirable view of the distant government buildings and monuments.

"Russ. Call me Russ. What floor? Top floor," replied Claven.

"We're on the top floor. Follow me. We shouldn't dawdle." He strode across a stunning old tribal carpet that was bigger than my office and up a ten-foot-wide staircase that was lined with banisters and handrails of exquisitely turned wrought iron. He waited for us at the landing and, with his arms parted, pirouetted to face a pair of heavy paneled doors. He said, "Voila.

Oh, wait, do either of you need to use the John?"

Lauren replied, "I do."

"That door, there." Russ pointed to the opposite side of the landing.

"Alan, you're sure your bladder is up to it? Kimber doesn't like anyone to leave until the initial part of the meeting is over. It could be a while. He runs these things like he's Werner Erhard and we're all at an old-time est meeting." Lauren disappeared into the bathroom. Russ asked me if I climbed rocks. I told him I didn't but that I had friends who did, mostly in Eldorado Canyon.

"Oh maaan. Envy, envy. You should try it, you really should. You'll fall in love, I promise you. I'm going this summer for sure. First week in August, I'm climbing in Eldorado Springs. A long time dream of mine. I'll tell you, if it wasn't for climbing rocks and windsurfing I don't know how I'd stay sane." I told him I liked to ride bikes.

He nodded and said, "That's okay, too," but his voice conveyed the same kind of disdain that snow boarders routinely express for skiers. Lauren returned to the landing. Claven's last words as he placed his left hand on one of the ornate doorknobs were, "Don't worry about being late. They'll probably blame me. It's one of my primary roles in the organization. Designated screw up." He snapped his fingers and added, "Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them I checked your ID."

A second set of doors, these of some kind of metal, awaited us inside. Claven mouthed a profanity, added, "I knew it. They've started," and punched a code into a keypad mounted on the wall of the small foyer. Moments later the metal slabs slid open in the same silent, fluid motion as elevator doors.

The doors closed behind us just as the lights in the room were dimming to black.

My retinal image of the scene in front of me was of nothing but silhouettes.

The room was large, maybe thirty by forty, and appeared to have been set up as a small theater with perhaps two dozen seats. I tried to visualize the backs of the heads I had seen and decided that more than half the chairs were occupied.

Claven separated my hand from Lauren's and led her to our right. I grabbed her other hand and followed them to seats near the back of the room. The chairs were big, leather, and comfortable. Mine rocked gently as I sat down. A deep, unaccented voice cracked the silence in the room.

"Nice of you to join us, Dr. Claven. You've gathered our final guests?"

"Yes, Kimber. All present and accounted for."

A spotlight clicked on and washed an uneven circle at the front of the room. At the bottom of the circle a man sat on the edge of a small stage, gripping a cordless microphone as though it were a cherished cigar. He was staring at the wall to our right. I was surprised to note he was no older than I was. His blond hair was thick, like his body.

"Good day, all. My name is Kimber Lister. To those of you who are visiting my home for the first time, please permit me to offer you a warm welcome to my dwelling and a gracious introduction to… Locard."

It was silent.

Kimber Lister's eyes never strayed toward the small audience as he addressed us from the diminutive stage. His voice was a resonating baritone that caused the sub woofer in the room's sound system to rumble. The rich timbre of the sound was an incongruous counterpoint to the body of the man who was speaking; Kimber was soft and round and appeared almost childlike and angelic, despite his size.

"As we have three visitors with us today, I will briefly survey our procedure.

The Locard Acceptance Committee has already reviewed the case we will be discussing this afternoon. After contemplation and deliberation, the committee has reached a decision to permit the entire group to hear the details of the case and to render a decision as to whether or not to offer our expertise and make our services available to assist the local authorities in accomplishing a final determination of the issues that remain unresolved in the matters that will be before us today."

Russ Claven leaned my way and said, "He always talks like this when he's in front of groups. The man was born in the wrong century." Lister continued to focus his attention on the wall.

"The purpose of today's meeting of the complete membership-in consort with our invited professional guests-is threefold. First, we will use this opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the specifics of the case. That is… to review what is known, and to make an initial determination of the breadth and quality of the evidence that was developed during earlier phases of the investigation-those conducted by local authorities contemporary to, and subsequent to, the crime. Second, we will make a final determination as to whether or not to commit our resources to provide assistance toward further analysis. Finally, should we decide to proceed, we will endeavor to develop and implement a strategy that will permit us to take the investigation to a more fulfilling level. To further those objectives, we will use presentation, discussion, question and answer, argument, and deduction.

Through the process that ensues, remaining investigatory tasks will be identified and fertile forensic pathways marked. Locard members and visiting experts alike will then use these guidelines to delineate tasks so that appropriate individuals might accept responsibility for making additional analyses and inquiries that are in line with their areas of expertise. As the developing evidence dictates, of course."

One of the effects of Lister's profundity was that I found myself attending vigorously to his words. His manner of speaking was so obtuse that it required additional concentration. He paused as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

I tried to scan the room to find A. J. Simes. Based on my memory of her hairstyle I settled on two likely candidates who were sitting near the front of the room.

Before he resumed his soliloquy, Lister lifted his feet from the floor and turned so that he was in profile to his audience. His feet and buttocks now rested on the stage; his knees were in the air. He still hadn't looked our way.

Behind him, a large movie screen descended silently from a slit in the ceiling at the back of the narrow stage. Lister said, "We'll begin with a short film presentation."

Russ Claven leaned over again and whispered in my ear. His breath was fetid.

"We always begin with a short film presentation. Mr. Lister would much rather be Ken Burns than Sherlock Holmes."

The first image on the screen was a close-up of the left hand of a woman. Her fingers were long and thin. Only a solitary ornament-a delicate ring of silver and amethyst-adorned the hand. The ring graced the pinkie. The fingernails on the hand were manicured but not painted, the cuticles having been trimmed with some care. From the lack of wrinkles on the skin I guessed that I was looking at the hand of a young woman.

Lauren, sitting beside me, reached over and squeezed the wrist on my left arm.

The gesture was a warning, a caution. The gesture said, Get ready, here it comes.

The camera pulled back slowly, revealing the woman's wrist and bare arm. A half-inch curved scar caused a quarter moon of silver to shine smoothly two inches below her elbow. The arm was trim, the biceps firm.

The theater was funereally quiet. I kept waiting for blood to darken the screen.

I was sure there was about to be blood.

But instead we moved from fingers to toes. Brightly painted, beautifully proportioned toes. The color of the nails was turquoise, and the background skin tones were a gorgeous gesso of subdued gold and amber.

Immediately, I decided that this was a different girl.

The camera lingered for a few moments and then pulled back from the toes to reveal an ankle of perfect proportion, a slender calf and an unbent knee, and a seemingly endless expanse of unblemished thigh. The beauty of the leg distracted me, but not totally. I was still waiting for the blood.

The next image on the screen was a wagon wheel. Totally unlike the arm and the leg, the wagon wheel was old and weathered, the spokes radiating out from a rusted iron hub. Through the spokes, behind them, I could see the vertical shoots of out-of-focus golden grasses. Cultivated grasses. Hay.

Lauren squeezed my arm again, released her grip, and lightly caressed my forearm. Wait, it's coming.

Using the hub of the wheel as the center of the world, the camera pulled back again. Quickly this time. At one side of the spoke rested the hand with the silver-and-amethyst ring. Hanging beside the wheel was the exquisite leg and the foot with the turquoise toes.

Here comes the blood.

The silence ended and Lister's recorded voice forced its way into every cubic centimeter of space in the theater.

"Colorado," he said as the wagon-wheel image exploded to a snapshot that showed two young women laughing deliriously, mugging for the camera. They were posing in a field on an old buckboard, the rolling mountainsides in the background dotted with stands of aspen. One of the girls was sitting on the buckboard, her legs draped over the side. The other was standing, leaning languorously against the wheel. The one whose hand we'd studied was an outdoorsy blonde. Her face was so vibrant and joyous I wanted to smile along with her. The one with the painted toes was of Asian ancestry. Japanese. On reflection, I decided that she was not quite so vibrant. I sensed some pressure in her mirth and her eyes were averted from the lens by a degree or two.

She was the follower.

Her friend was the leader.

"The Elk River Valley near Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Steamboat is a mountain town in the northern Colorado Rockies, founded by ranchers, but developed by skiers. Its residents call it "Ski Town USA."

"The camera closed on the blonde.

"Steamboat Springs was the only home that Tamara Franklin ever knew. Everyone in town knew her and everyone called her Tami." The lens moved to the young Asian.

"Steamboat was the home of Mariko Hamamoto for only eight months. Her new American friends called her Miko. Her family… did not" The screen went suddenly white. So fine was the focus that I could make out the crystalline forms of snowflakes and ice crystals. I waited for the camera to pull back. It did. Protruding from an uneven bank of snow were a hand and, four or five feet away, a foot.

On the hand was a silver-and-amethyst ring.

On the foot were five toes with glistening turquoise nails.

I stopped worrying about the blood. Now that I'd had my first view of the murder scene, I was sure that every drop would be frozen.

The film lasted another ten or twelve minutes.

Tami Franklin and Miko Hamamoto had been juniors at Steamboat Springs High School. They were friends who were last thought to have been together on a November evening just before Thanksgiving of 1988. Sometime in the late afternoon Tami had driven her dad's pickup truck away from her family's cattle ranch near the tiny township of dark, high in the Elk River Valley in the shadows of Mount Zirkel. Behind the truck she was towing a snowmobile on a trailer. She had told her brother that, snow permitting, she was going to meet Miko for an evening ride to one of the hot springs not far from town. Her brother, Joey, had thought she said she was heading to Strawberry Park. But he wasn't sure.

Mariko's parents had told investigators that their daughter had left home to meet her friend after completing her homework. They didn't know anything about a snowmobile outing. Mariko's mother guessed that her daughter left right around six o'clock. Maybe ten minutes before or ten minutes after.

That was the night the two girls disappeared. No witnesses reported seeing them together that evening. No one acknowledged seeing the truck. A massive search was mounted the next morning; attention primarily focused on the trails that led to the most popular of the nearby hot springs in Strawberry Park. The search continued for the entire day. But early that evening a memorable storm blew in from the north. Skiers waiting at the base of Mount Werner rejoiced.

Nearby Rabbit Ears Pass was closed under forty-three inches of snow.

The girls were declared missing. A day later the snowmobile trailer was discovered in a parking lot near the gondola in Mountain Village. The snowmobile was not on the trailer. The pickup truck was found almost a month later in Grand Junction, hours away, abandoned.

The bodies of the two girls lay undisturbed until the springtime thaw of 1989 was well under way. A cross-country skier who had moved off of a main trial in order to find a secluded place to urinate spotted one of the skids of Tami's snowmobile as it was beginning to protrude from a snow-filled ravine above Pearl Lake, high in the Elk River Valley. The location of the snowmobile was not in the direction of the hot springs that Tami had told her brother was her destination. Not even close.

A bloodhound brought to the scene by the Routt County sheriff discovered the bodies about six hours later. The grave where the girls had been dumped was a natural hollow in the earth that had been created by the fall of a diseased fir tree as it broke free of the steep slope where it had been growing. The hillside to which the tree had tried to cling faced north. The location where the bodies were found was at least seventy-five yards from the overturned snowmobile. Due to the nature of the terrain, however, neither of the two crime scenes was visible from the other.

To investigators at the scene there did not appear to have been any attempt to bury the girls. The only shroud over Miko's and Tami's bodies was snow. A lot of snow. At the nearby ski area that winter, the official snowfall total on top of Mount Werner had been 361 inches.

When their inadequate graves were discovered by the bloodhound, the girls' bodies were still encased in snow and ice. Only Miko's once lovely foot and Tami's once elegant hand protruded. The exposure of the limbs to the elements had been recent; small animals had barely begun to nibble on the exposed flesh.

The crime scenes were complex and would have challenged virtually any experienced homicide-crime-scene investigator. However, no experienced forensic personnel were available that day either in Routt County or in nearby Steamboat Springs. The personnel who did arrive at the scene didn't correctly recognize the challenge they faced.

Especially after they discovered that the hand that protruded from the snow was the only one still attached to Tami Franklin's body. The other one was gone. As were the toes of her friend's left foot.

The primary focus of Kimber Listers short film was to spotlight the forensic and investigatory shortcomings of the initial investigation. A litany of problems was listed. Poor crime-scene management. Careless recovery of the snowmobile.

Possible contamination of both crime scenes by unnecessary personnel.

Mishandling of the dead bodies at the crime scene. Incomplete laboratory analysis and mishandling of specimens from the autopsies. Witnesses who should have been interviewed, but weren't. Witnesses who should have been reinterviewed, but weren't.

The list went on. The more I listened, the more I wondered why I'd been asked to be a member of the team that would reinvestigate this case. Laurens invitation made much more sense to me. She was a deputy DA in Boulder County with an extensive background in felony investigations. She could advise Locard on a myriad of local legal mores associated with the earlier and the current investigations.

But me? I didn't get it. I was a clinical psychologist in private practice. I had no formal training in forensic psychology. The crux of Locards involvement in the murders of Tami Franklin and Miko Hamamoto appeared to involve the cutting edge of forensic science. I knew that I couldn't help them there.

The lights came up at the conclusion of the film and Lister announced a short break for lunch. An anteroom off the side of the theater had been set up as a sandwich buffet. Russ Claven made a beeline for it.

I was looking around the room for A. J. Simes when she approached us from behind.

"Hi, you two. Thanks for coming."

We both stood. Lauren and A. J. hugged awkwardly over the top of the seats. A. J. offered her right hand to me. I shook it. She said, "Bet you're wondering why you're here." She was looking at me as she spoke. I was trying not to focus all my attention on the four-point cane she was using for support.

"You're right about that, A. J. This"-I waved at the screen- "doesn't seem exactly up my alley."

"Does either of you remember the case? These two murders? You both lived in Colorado back then, didn't you? " Lauren didn't respond. I said, "I remember it vaguely. Crimes back then didn't get the coverage they do now. My memory is that there was a little splash when the girls disappeared, a big splash when the bodies were found, then the fanfare kind of faded away when no suspect was identified." A. J. said, "Well I wasn't there, of course, but that summary doesn't exactly surprise me. Do you mind if we sit?"

Lauren said, "Let's. Please."

A. J. moved around the seats and took the chair that Russ Claven had occupied.

"Obviously, your participation in this inquiry was my idea. Please be assured that I wanted both of you to be involved. Lauren, your role is easier to define.

It's typical for us to find a consultant in a local prosecutor's office to provide guidance for us on local legal customs. Okay?" Lauren nodded.

"Alan, your role is less circumscribed. I suggested you for two reasons. First, it is clear to all of us on the committee that screens new cases that too little is known about the pre morbid history of these two girls. At the time the bodies were discovered the local police approached the investigation as though they were looking for an opportunistic killer, either a serial killer, or a drifter, or whatever. They never adequately explored the possibility that there might have been a reason that these two girls collided with this killer, or killers.

My own bias is that if you don't explore something, you can't rule it out.

"What I'm talking about, obviously, is a variant of a psychological autopsy.

Typically, doing a psychological autopsy of these two girls would be my role.

But I'm currently… unwell, physically unwell… and not in a position to do the traveling necessary to accomplish the tasks that are required to assemble such a profile. Based on our work together last year, I think you, Alan, have the skills and the demeanor to help me do it."

I found myself slowly inhaling, overfilling my lungs. I wasn't sure why. I didn't speak.

"But that's only part of it. The second reason I wanted you on board is that we already know that the background of one of the girls- Mariko-included a stint in psychotherapy with a psychologist who was practicing back then in Steamboat Springs. We're going to need to acquire permission from her family to get access to those treatment records. And someone is going to need to interview the psychologist who treated her to see what he can tell us about this young girl."

Lauren was a step ahead of me. She said, "And you would rather that be somebody local?" A. J. said, "Exactly."

During the sojourn the prior year when she was trying to protect me from a killer, A. J. and I had gone a few rounds over the necessity of the confidentiality of treatment records, so I pressed her on that issue.

"Do you have any reason to expect that her family will deny us access to their daughter's treatment records?"

"We don't really know. Locard's assistance on the case was requested by the new police chief of Steamboat Springs and by the family of Tami Franklin. The Hamamoto family no longer lives in the area-in fact they no longer live in the United States. Obviously we're anticipating cooperation, but those contacts are yet to be made."

I remained confused.

"Why do you want a local psychologist to make the inquiries? I don't exactly follow."

"Surprisingly enough, the answer is political." She assessed our faces to see if either of us had guessed what she was referring to. When neither Lauren nor I responded, A. J. continued.

"Why politics? Because it turns out that the psychologist that Mariko Hamamoto was seeing for psychotherapy in Steamboat Springs was Dr. Raymond Welle. That's why this thing is so damn political." I said, "Representative Raymond Welle? That Dr. Welle?"

Before A. J. had a chance to respond Lauren's hand jumped up to cover her mouth and she emitted a little squeak from deep in her throat.

I explained, "She knows him. Raymond Welle."

My wife swallowed, exhaled once, inhaled once, and said, "Actually I was related to him. Kind of. Well, briefly."

A. J. looked my way before turning back to Lauren.

"We know about Lauren's first marriage. It came up when we were vetting the two of you. Welle was your brother-in-law, right?" Lauren said, "Yes My first husband's sister was married to Raymond Welle."

"So do you know him intimately?" A. J. asked.

"Does anybody?" Lauren replied. Before we had a chance to talk any further, A. J. was called away by Kimber Lister. Lauren and I grabbed sandwiches and drinks and returned to our seats.

Russ Claven didn't come back to join us. He was across the room, near the stage, his attention consumed by a woman with short, radiant bronze-red hair and a gold lame patch over her right eye. She was juggling a bottle of iced tea and a plate that was piled high with a sandwich and potato salad. She accomplished the buffet waltz with admirable agility. Claven said something that made her laugh and a narrow flash of teeth erupted into a wide smile that lit the room in a way that reminded me of the infectious smile I'd just seen on the snapshot of Tami Franklin.

Lauren was looking toward the woman, too. She said, "Cool patch, don't you think?"

"Definitely," I concurred.

"Has to be custom. Can't get one of those at Walgreens."

Without turning back to face me, Lauren said, "You know, I think A. J.'s MS is worse."

"The cane?"

"Sure. Her balance is bad, she's holding on to chairs when she walks. Something else is going on, too. I see it in her eyes."

Both Lauren and A. J. lived with multiple sclerosis. Although we had never discussed it with her, we both suspected that the form of the disease that A. J. struggled with was more virulent than Lauren's version.

I asked, "You still thinking she may have progressive disease?" I was describing the most dreaded form of the illness, the one that causes rapid deterioration without remission or recovery.

Absently, Lauren caressed a stretch of skin on her shoulder that had recently gone numb.

"God, I hope not. But she's lost weight, don't you think?" Without waiting for my reply, she asked, "What do you think about the case?"

I shrugged.

"It's interesting. The forensics seem fascinating. I'd be more comfortable with my part of it if it didn't involve my needing to interview Raymond Welle. How well did you know him? Did you and Jake spend much time with him and his wife?"

"You know, we didn't see them very much. Jacob's family wasn't… close… and Raymond and Gloria were up in Steamboat most of the time we were in Denver.

Jacob's father wasn't very tolerant of Raymond, so he and Gloria tended to stay out of the city. Jake and I skied with them once for a long weekend, but I spent more time with Gloria than I did with Raymond."

"What was your impression of him?"

"Raymond? He was as shallow as they come. Always trying to pump himself up so he'd have some stature in the family. Given Jake's family, and all they've accomplished, that wasn't easy. Being around Raymond was painful for me. Gloria was self-absorbed in her own way, but at least there was an underlying generosity about her. She wanted to be kinder than she really was-you know what I mean? But she always did seem to manage to have enough energy to taunt her father. I think Raymond was part of that."

"What are you saying? She married him to spite her dad?"

"Jake's father is a Kennedy Democrat. Has always played the family wealth thing very low-key. Gloria made loud Republican noises at family gatherings and was as visible with her trust fund as she could manage while she was out on the gilded-horse-show circuit. It made her father uncomfortable. I always assumed that was her intent."

"And Raymond?"

"He had a certain charisma, I suppose. Not charm, but charisma. The thing that made it so uncomfortable to be around him was that he was always cooking up some scheme or another to try to look large. With Gloria, he married into the big leagues, Alan. I did, too-by marrying her brother-so I know what it was like to try to function up in that rarefied air. And I can tell you that as unprepared as I was, Raymond certainly didn't have the tools to play at that level."

"Well, he's not underachieving now."

She chuckled. " I don't know about that. Ever take a close look at the current makeup of the House of Representatives? Most of those people wouldn't stand a chance of winning a second day on Wheel of Fortune. You have to admit that Congress has fulfilled the founding fathers' dreams and become the ultimate equal-opportunity employer."

"But before he was elected, Raymond Welle had his own nationally syndicated radio show. Not too many people get that far."

"And the ones who do? Whom exactly are we talking about, sweetie? Howard Stern and Don Imus? Rush Limbaugh? Dr. Laura?" She smiled at me in a way that was, at once, both patronizing and enormously affectionate.

"Are you going to try to make an argument that the cream has floated to the top of that vat?"

The premise was distasteful.

"I'll grant you a point on that. But you do have to admit he's made a name for himself. Raymond."

"Sure he's made a name for himself. What did he call himself on that stupid radio show before he was elected? America's therapist? And his campaign slogan, what was it?

"Colorado needs to get Welle." But I don't think he did it all himself. Raymond's where he is because he was smart enough and slimy enough first to marry Gloria, and second, to capitalize on the fact that she was brutally murdered.

They used each other while they were alive. He got the last laugh though: he used her after she was dead. The man took his grief and vengeance onto his radio show like he was the one who'd invented the Greek tragedy."

My wife was being unusually reproachful. Typically, she found a way to shadow her criticisms behind a veil of acceptance.

"So, can I safely assume that you didn't really like Raymond very much?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

"I didn't. And I still don't."

"Is it politics? What?"

I watched her face contort into a yawn. The day of travel and meetings was taking a toll on her energy.

"What he spouts off about, that's not politics. I'm sorry, that's dogma."

"What then? Why the negativity?"

Lauren picked some turkey from the side of her sandwich and slid it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed before she responded to my question.

"If you knew him in high school-Raymond, I mean he would have been the boy who was always between cliques. He was the kid who considered himself too good for the group he was with and he would be doing everything he could to ingratiate himself with the group he wanted to be in.

When I met him, he'd already managed to marry into the best clique he'd ever find. I suppose I was as guilty of that sin as he was. What I never liked about him is that he felt that his marriage, and his new status, elevated him to some new exalted level. Raymond actually believed that he was a better person because he'd married Gloria."

Lauren and I had never done a detailed tour of the marital territory she'd left behind with her divorce, so my next question to her was not uncomplicated. I couldn't foresee how she'd reply. I asked, "What was it like for you when you were married to Jake? I mean socially, I guess. You know, in the world of wealth and privilege?"

She sipped through a straw from a bottle of herbal tea before she replied.

"What was it like up there? Well, the food was almost always good. The sheets were always soft. The flowers were always fresh. The lines were short. But the people? The people were the same as they are everywhere else. Some wonderful, some ordinary, some despicable."

"Raymond?"

"He was never ordinary."

After lunch, the group filed out of the theater and descended the wide oak stairs to the main room in Kimber Listers flat. Chairs were pulled in from the dining-room table. Large pillows were tossed on the wood floor. Lister and Russ Claven wheeled an old-fashioned schoolhouse chalkboard in from another room.

Before everyone was settled down, Lister began to make introductions of the visitors to the proceedings. First he introduced the current chief of the Steamboat Springs Police Department, a barrel-chested man with red hair named Percy Smith was identified as the man responsible for bringing the case of the two dead girls to the attention of Locard. The next introduction was Lauren.

Finally, me. The group pretty much ignored us.

Lauren and I had grabbed a small chintz love seat at the back of the room. I sat enthralled as a discussion of the facts about the two dead girls slowly developed into a tornadic debate about whether the case could be closed with help from the group that was assembled. Questions were posed. Some were answered. Some were deflected or deferred. Lister outlined every advance and failure of the debate on the chalkboard with a fine hand that wasted precious little chalk.

The woman with the eye patch, it turned out, was a crime-scene specialist from North Carolina. Her name was Flynn Coe. She quickly became the focus of much of the early discussion, which dealt with the management-or mismanagement-of the crime scenes where the two girls had been found and where the snowmobile had been recovered. I assumed that Flynn had studied the police reports in advance of the meetings, because her comprehension of the problems posed by the collection and contamination of the evidence was so thorough and thoughtful.

russ Claven, much to my surprise, revealed himself as a forensic pathologist who was on the faculty at Johns Hopkins. I struggled to understand the nuances of the questions that were thrown his way about the initial autopsies, tissue preservation, and the effects of longterm freezing on human cadavers. Most of it, thankfully, was way over my head.

I was also trying to begin to internalize a roster of the other regular members of Locard. At least three or four people in the room were FBI, including a supervisor from the Bureau's crime lab, and a hair-and-fibers specialist whose head was as bald as a baby's butt. I counted two prosecutors besides Lauren, one federal, one Maryland. Two homicide detectives. A faculty member from Northeastern University. A ballistics person who didn't look old enough for full membership in the NRA. A document analyst. A forensic dentist. A forensic anthropologist. A couple of cops whose specialties I couldn't discern. A forensic psychiatrist who looked like a game-show host, and A. J." who was a forensic psychologist. Two or three people never said enough to permit me to make a guess about their professional specialties.

After the focus shifted from Flynn Coe and the crime scene, a number of questions were directed to A. J." who had already completed a search of the FBI VICAP database looking for evidence of similar crimes in other jurisdictions. A few Locard members argued that two murders of young men-one in Arizona the year before, one in Texas the year after-that were accompanied by hand amputations warranted further analysis. To me, A. J. seemed skeptical about the connection.

The very fact that she wanted me to assess the pre morbid psychology of the two girls argued against her having much faith in the serial-killer theory.

My watch told me that we were almost two hours into the debate before a sedate woman who sat far off to the side in the gathering took a break from her needlepoint long enough to speak for the first time. I guessed she was in her early sixties. She wore a long denim skirt and a pale green cardigan over an eyelet blouse. Only the top of the cardigan was buttoned. Everyone in the room quieted in response to her clearing her throat. As the room hushed, she lifted her half-glasses from her nose and dropped them gingerly to her ample chest, where they hung on a beaded chain. She said, "Excuse me, please, Kimber. But I have a question. Maybe two."

Kimber softened his booming voice as much as he could, which wasn't much.

"Yes, Mary. Of course."

"What consideration was given to the involvement of the brother? Tami Franklin's brother? The one who claims he knew where she was taking the snowmobile that night?"

Percy Smith, the current chief of the Steamboat Springs Police Department, responded.

"He was interviewed, but the boy was only fifteen at the time, ma'am."

"Yes?"

Her incredulity was an act intended to place Smith on the defensive. It worked.

Smith said, "It is his family, the Franklin family, that requested that I contact Locard, ma'am. The family is underwriting a significant amount of the expenses associated with reopening the investigation."

"Yes?"

The chief hesitated and looked around the room for help. None was forthcoming.

"Do you follow golf, ma'am?"

She fielded the non sequitur with aplomb. She said, "No, I'm sorry. Should I?" as she busied herself picking some errant threads from her needlepoint that had ended up on her sweater.

"Tami Franklin's younger brother is Joey Franklin. The golfer? Perhaps you've heard of him."

"Actually, no, I have not. But that's very nice for him. I hope he enjoys the sport more than I do. But my question remains, what was Joey Franklin, the golfer, whose family so wants our help solving these crimes, what was that Joey Franklin doing the night his sister and her friend disappeared?"

Excitement clear in her voice, Lauren whispered, "Alan, you know who that is? I think that's Mary Wright. She's a legend in the Justice Department. She was on the team that prosecuted Noriega. People talk about her sometimes for the Supreme Court."

The name Mary Wright meant nothing to me.

The police chief finally replied to Marys question.

"In his initial interview, Joey stated that he was out riding his horse until sunset. He said that after he brushed his horse down he went inside and was playing video games after that. He maintains he went to bed early."

Mary had returned her half-glasses to her nose and had refocused her attention on her needlepoint.

"Were his reports of his activities ever corroborated?" The chief didn't respond. Kimber said, "No, Mary, to my knowledge his whereabouts have not been independently verified. His parents were out that night. Mr. Franklin wasn't back from a business trip of some kind. Mrs. Franklin was having dinner with a friend. Joey was home alone."

Mary clarified, her voice mildly admonishing.

"I'm afraid that is a slightly elastic version of what we know to be true, Kimber. What we know appears to be limited to the reality that, if young Joey was home, he was home without parental supervision, and without a corroborating witness. His solitude cannot be established with anything approaching certainty."

Kimber grinned and proceeded to add a line to the chalkboard that read:

Alibi, Joey Franklin??? Reinterview.

Lauren gestured at the new line on the board and whispered, "Is Joey Franklin who I think he is? That young golfer who everyone's talking about? The one who had the playoff with Tiger at that tournament?"

That tournament was the recent Masters. Lauren didn't follow sports much. I nodded and said," It must be him." "He's cute," she said.

I didn't have an opinion about his cuteness.

Kimber continued his solicitousness toward Mary Wright.

"Is there anything else, Mary? Before we move on?"

She smiled warmly, her gaze wholly above the lenses of her glasses.

"Perhaps one more thing. The location of the murders? I'm troubled that we haven't talked more about that. The initial investigation? One of the things that we don't know is where these poor girls were murdered. That's correct, isn't it?"

Kimber's strategy all along had been to require that the Steamboat Springs cop take the responsibility for acknowledging the weaknesses in the case. The chief finally admitted, "No. The initial investigation did not reveal the precise location of the actual murders."

Mary faced Flynn Coe.

"Flynn, dear? You and russ have determined that the site of the murder wasn't where the bodies were found, was it?"

"No, Mary. The girls weren't killed there. The bodies had been moved. Possibly on the snowmobile." Mary said, "It seems to me that it would be very helpful for us to find that girl's hand and the other one's toes now, wouldn't it?"

Kimber wrote:

Tami Franklin, missing hand. Mariko Hamamoto, missing toes. Locate.

"That's all for me," said Mary.

The meeting persisted through two breaks until late afternoon. Lauren was gamely trying to stay awake as the day waned. A. J. looked exhausted, too.

Finally, Kimber Lister called for an end to the debate and then a vote about the formation of a working group. To the visitors, he explained that the creation of a working group, if approved, would indicate that Locard had reached a decision to make resources available for this investigation. The membership of the working group would be composed of those Locard regulars and invited guests whose special skills were considered essential to advance this particular case.

The debate was brief. In short order, the formation of a working group was approved with only one dissenting vote. Kimber moved to appoint Flynn Coe to coordinate the working group, no one demurred, and he quickly listed the initial working-group membership on his chalkboard.

Flynn Coe, crime scene, working-group coordinator Russell Claven, forensic pathology Laird Stabler, hair and fibers A. J. Simes, profiling, psychology Mary Wright, prosecutor Percy Smith, guest, detective Lee Skinner, detective Lauren Crowder, guest, prosecutor Alan Gregory, guest, psychologist

Lister asked for recommended additions. None were proffered. He gave a short speech about confidentiality and relations with the media, should they learn of our work. He explained that each guest would be partnered with an active member of Locard. Percy Smith would work with Lee Skinner, Lauren with Mary Wright, I with A. J. Simes.

He thanked us for our time, and the meeting was over.

My watch told me it was 4:36 in Boulder, Colorado. But Lauren's drawn face and rapid-fire yawns told me it was much too late in the day for her. She'd told me more than once that one of the most difficult things about her illness was how it shortened her days. Most people get twelve or fourteen waking hours to work and to play and to love.

"Sometimes," she'd said, "I feel like I only get four or six" Whatever allotment she'd had today, she'd severely overdrawn the account. It was absolutely clear to me that she needed to get horizontal and she needed it quickly. I despaired for her and worried about the effects of the fatigue on our baby.

Percy Smith approached the love seat just as I was about to go looking for Russ Claven to see what he could tell me about travel arrangements back to Colorado.

Percy smiled at Lauren, whose eyes were closed, her fingers laced across her belly. He said, "Jet lag? Me, too."

I didn't bother to correct him.

He and I introduced ourselves, and managed some small talk about how nice it would be to be working together, before he said, "Listen," in a tone that was unnecessarily abrupt.

"The three of us? We're traveling back home to Colorado together on Joey Franklin's jet. Just us. At the last break I phoned the people who coordinate the jet service. They can be ready to fly in about an hour. We'll get a cab from here out to Ronald Reagan. I assume that's okay with the two of you. The jet will drop me off in Steamboat and then take the two of you back down to Denver or wherever."

I glanced at Lauren for some sense of her inclination. Her eyes didn't open; I suspected she had actually fallen asleep. The alternative to accepting Percy Smith's invitation was finding a hotel room for the night, arranging a commercial trip back to DIA the next day, then getting a cab to Jefferson County Airport, where we'd left our car. Smith's plan sounded better.

"Sounds good. Chief Smith. My wife's pretty tired. She will probably just sack out on the sofa in the plane."

He exhaled in a short burst through his nostrils. A feral snort.

"Well, if there's two of them I got dibs on the other," he said. I was about to chuckle at the juvenile humor until I realized that the man was serious. He pointed at my chest and said, "How about you get the cab," then looked down at his watch.

"Say, twenty minutes."

The word echoing about inside my head was asshole. I tried to smile, but I couldn't. I did manage a nod to his departing back. I promised myself it was the last directive I would take from the man.

A. J. Simes appeared as tired as Lauren as she approached us to say good-bye.

She was leaning more heavily on her cane than she had been earlier in the day.

She couldn't miss the evidence of Lauren's decline, and smiled sympathetically at me.

"I think we may have asked too much of your wife today. Sorry. I will admit that I'm tempted to sack out next to her."

"She'll be fine. I think she's thrilled at the chance to be working with Mary Wright."

"She should be. Marys a prize. What about you? Are you comfortable with what you heard today, Alan?" I said, "Reasonably, A. J. I'll admit that I'm not too thrilled about interviewing Raymond Welle. The rest of the case seems interesting-fascinating, actually. But, given the expertise of this group, I feel like a total novice with all this-I'm counting on your guidance to help me through it."

She touched my arm. I couldn't tell whether it was an act of reassurance or whether it offered some protection against her losing her balance.

"Don't worry, I'll provide whatever guidance you need. But if I read you right last year, before this is over you'll probably be telling me to get my nose out of your face." I said, "I doubt that will happen. This work must be very satisfying for all of you in Locard. To be able to go back and offer consolation, or at least closure, to the victims' families on all these old cases."

"Not just old cases. What we revisit are cold cases. The way I look at our work is that our goal is to try to raise the dead. Or the presumed dead. Or the feared dead. If we do our work well, we bring them back long enough to help us solve the crime that took them away. When Kimber and I and a few others started all this a few years ago, I wanted to call the organization Lazarus. No one else liked the name though. But I thought it would be the most fitting label of all."

"I can see how it would be."

A. J. shifted her weight and tried to disguise a grimace.

"And it has been very satisfying. For someone like me who isn't able to participate professionally in the Bureau any longer, it provides an opportunity to satisfy a true need. For others on the team, it provides a sense of camaraderie, of collegiality, and a feeling of being able to directly impact justice in a way that their career paths often deny them." I said, "I don't actually know too much about Vidocq, your counterpart in Philadelphia, but what I saw today leaves me with the impression that you do things a bit differently than they do."

"We can't match them in reputation, but we have every bit as much expertise. Our profile is lower, by design. Our style is more proactive. Our membership is, well-how should I put it?-less mainstream. We're less hesitant to dive in and investigate where we need to. Lister calls the difference between Vidocq and Locard the difference between cogitation and investigation.

But Vidocq has certainly enjoyed its successes."

"What about Lister? Where does he fit?"

My question caused her to smile.

"That… is another story. A long one. One that will have to wait until a time when your wife and I aren't so tired. I'll phone you tomorrow or the next day in Colorado and we'll begin to map out an initial strategy for how to approach our particular piece of this puzzle. Then we'll get started filling in the holes. I'm grateful, Alan, that you agreed to help. I definitely wanted someone I could trust on this one. Please say good-bye to Lauren for me and express my gratitude to her as well." She turned to leave. I said, "Before you go, A. J.-the jet that we flew out on?

It belongs to Joey Franklin, isn't that right?"

She tightened her eyes.

"Yes, he owns a piece of the plane. Apparently, it's a time-share arrangement.

He buys an eighth or a quarter interest or something and then he gets to use so many hours a year to fly around to his golf tournaments and things. I recall that your ethical knife has a very sharp blade, so I think I know what you're concerned about. A possible conflict of interest, right? I've mentioned it to Kimber already. We'll have to keep an eye on it and see what develops with the young girl's brother. If money to aid the investigation continues to flow from the Franklin family, we may have something to be worried about."

"You probably already know this, but Lauren and I and Chief Smith are flying back on the jet in an hour."

She shrugged.

"My advice? Enjoy the flight. It'll be much easier on Lauren than going commercial." She touched my arm again and nodded at my wife.

"When is she due?"

Very little escaped A. J."s attention.

"Beginning of October. Thanks for asking.

The pregnancy has gone well so far."

"Is she stable?" From the slight alteration in tone, I discerned that she was asking about Lauren's MS, not her pregnancy.

"The pregnancy has been kind to her as far as her illness is concerned. It's after that has me concerned. You know? The stress of having a newborn?" Lauren s neurologist had told us that pregnancy was often a period of respite and remission for women with multiple sclerosis. Unfortunately, the protection often ended abruptly with delivery.

"I know," said A. J. "Her role on this case shouldn't be too difficult. If it gets to be too much for her, let me know. Mary and I are friends." She adjusted her weight on her cane.

"We'll talk soon."

She held out her hand. I responded by leaning in and giving her a quick hug.

Into her ear, I said, "You feeling okay? Honestly."

She pulled back.

"Honestly? I can't complain."

I watched her walk away and then went in search of a phone to call for a car to take us to the airport.

Lauren woke to an almost empty loft. She was embarrassed by her fatigue, as I figured she would be.

Kimber Lister saw us toward the elevator.

"The car is here. Downstairs, idling at the curb. Chief Smith does not endeavor to travel as lightly as the two of you. His luggage is, believe me, not insubstantial for such an abbreviated visit. He's downstairs now, loading his things." He placed a hand on the small of each of our backs.

"These days when we at Locard introduce new cases always turn out to be quite hectic for me. My principal regret is that I usually don't get a chance to acquaint myself with my guests as thoroughly as I would like.

Please forgive me if I have not managed to be an attentive host. I pray we will have another opportunity to visit and that on that occasion you will permit me to properly express my gratitude for your participation and your sacrifice on our behalf."

I wondered how he could construct sentences like that after a day as draining as this one had been. I said, "You've been very kind. Your home is quite lovely.

And we'd welcome another chance to get to know you better, as well. We're honored to have been asked to participate. And we appreciate your hospitality."

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded his head in some manner of acknowledgment.

Lauren stopped in front of the elevator in the foyer.

"The film we saw earlier?

Was that your work?"

Lister blushed.

"Yes," he said.

"I… composed that piece. An avocation of mine."

"You have talent, Mr. Lister. I was captivated."

"Kimber, please. You're too kind."

"I'm not being insincere."

"Well. Thank you, then."

"You're quite welcome. Alan and I both hope we're able to provide enough help to warrant A. J.s faith in us."

Lister laughed.

"I do not concern myself with that for even a moment. A. J. Simes does not assess people incorrectly. That is why she's such a valuable member of the Locard team."

The elevator arrived. Lister kissed Lauren on the cheek and told us both to be well.

The taxi waiting downstairs was, fortunately, a huge something from General Motors. Percy Smith was already sitting in the backseat staring at his watch in a manner that I figured was intended to induce our guilt at being tardy. I don't think Lauren noticed. I was irritated by his pettiness.

Apparently Smith had already given the driver directions, for the car lurched from the curb the second I closed the door behind me. I asked the driver to please switch on the air conditioner. Lauren's MS caused her to be intolerant of heat. I assumed her pregnancy would only aggravate her discomfort.

Smith said, "I don't like air-conditioning."

I leaned forward and faced him, Lauren between us. Intentionally forcing civility into my voice, "I'm sorry. Chief Smith. My wife requires the air-conditioning for her health. I hope you can accommodate her for the brief amount of time it will take us to get across town to the airport."

As the words came out of my mouth, I felt as though I were talking like Kimber Lister.

Without a word, Smith pressed the button that raised his window. When the glass finally sealed shut, he muttered, "On such a fine day, too."

I began to wonder whether this private jet with ten seats was going to be large enough for the three of us.

The flight attendant on this leg was a gentleman in his fifties named Hans. He was solicitous and professional in getting us settled on board. Lauren noticed, as I did, that the interior of this plane was slightly different than the one on which we'd flown east. I wondered out loud whether Joey Franklin leased an entire fleet.

Chief Smith spoke for the first time since muttering about having to close his window.

"Joey actually leases time in the air, not on a specific plane. Any plane in the fleet that's the right size might arrive when he calls for service.

He uses them mostly to get to his golf tournaments. Shares the cost with one of his buddies."

Lauren was settling down on one of the leather sofas, fumbling for her seat belt.

"It certainly is a pleasant way to fly."

"Can't beat it," said Smith.

"Can't beat it. Hans? A cold beer would be great right about now. One of those green ones, from your homeland."

Hans looked right at me and, his face otherwise impassive, raised one reddish blond eyebrow about an eighth of an inch before he said, "I'm from Germany, sir.

The beer you are requesting is, I believe, Heineken. It is made in Holland." He turned as a soldier might and retraced his steps to the galley to retrieve Percy's beer. Percy glared at him; Percy didn't care in what country his beer was made, but he didn't like being corrected by the help.

Lauren had apparently decided to put more effort into being cordial to our traveling companion than I had. She asked, "Have you flown on Mr. Franklin's airplane before, Chief Smith?"

"Yep. Came out here for the first Locard meeting." Lauren asked

"How did it come about that you requested Locard to reopen the investigation of the murder of the two girls? " He took the beer from Hans, immediately finishing almost half of the contents. "I took over the force in Steamboat almost two years ago. Weren't too many cases left for me to clean up in town. And none anywhere near as serious as this one. Even though it was a sheriff's case and not a city case I was naturally interested it being a homicide and all and so I made it a point to familiarize myself with everyone who had been involved back then. It was Mr. Franklin senior, not Joey who told me about Locard. I'd never heard of them.

He'd seen something in some newspaper about that kidnapping they solved in Texas. That high school boy? You remember? So I asked the sheriff if he minded if I started looking at the stuff he had in his files. Sheriff didn't care. So I reinterviewed some of the witnesses. Inventoried the evidence that hadn't been misplaced. I actually pulled everything together that I could even put it all together in a new murder book and Mr. Franklin senior and I came out and met Kimber and three or four others a couple of months back. That's how it all got started." Lauren asked, "What about the other family? Marikos family?"

"Long gone. Back in Japan for all I know."

"So they haven't been consulted? You don't know how they feel about the work we are going to be doing?"

Percy shrugged.

"Why would they object?"

I was about to press to try and determine whether any effort had been made to contact the Hamamoto family, but the captain was walking to the back of the plane. She was a tall woman with intricate braids that had been pinned up at the sides of her head. She had swimmer's shoulders. She introduced herself to her three passengers and said we'd begin taxiing in about three minutes and that the first hour or so looked to be pretty bumpy. A big wall of thunderstorms was heading north out of the Virginias.

"So I want y'all to listen to his safety instructions extra carefully." She waited. I nodded.

"Good. Now enjoy your flight. Our first stop today is Yampa Valley Regional Airport, then we'll be heading off on a very short hop to Jefferson County."

Hans had been waiting patiently for the captain to finish speaking. He stepped forward and leaned from his waist toward Lauren.

"A refreshment, miss, while we taxi? Perhaps a warm towel for your hands and face?" he inquired.

I leaned down and raised one of Lauren's legs to my lap and removed her shoe.

As I began to massage her foot, I decided I was going to do everything in my power to enjoy this flight.

Lauren and Percy quickly fell asleep and Hans covered each of them with a quilted blanket. Lauren stirred each time the plane encountered turbulence, which was frequently, once opening her eyes and gazing at me before rolling onto her side. I reached over and tightened her seat belt a little, briefly resting my hand on the slight swell in her abdomen. Percy Smith didn't move at all. I made a silent bet to myself that he would snore.

The conversation that accompanied dinner was banal, and was mostly focused on Percy's background because Percy displayed absolutely no interest in either Lauren or me. He lost no time in letting us know that he had played football for Tom Osborne at Nebraska-although it turned out he had actually played very little football for Tom Osborne at Nebraska. Lauren stopped him before he launched into a description of the knee rehab he had endured for the ACL he'd torn during his sophomore year. He was equally eager to boast that he had married a beautiful cheerleader named Judy. He lifted a fat wallet from his hip pocket and showed us a worn picture of Judy in her Nebraska cheerleader outfit.

Judy Smith was quite pretty. Percy explained that his "wife's people are from Routt County. Mining. Cattle. Old-timers." Lauren asked if he and Judy had any children.

He replied, "Yeah. Two" 0-kay. In Percy's mind, I guessed that covered the topic.

Percy's life didn't fascinate me enough to continue the conversation in the direction it was heading. I changed the subject back to the issue of the two dead girls.

"What about the man you replaced in Steamboat? What was his name? Barrett? What did he think about the way his investigation concluded?"

"I didn't replace Barrett. Barrett was Routt County sheriff. And he left in ninety-two or ninety-three. I replaced Tim Whitney."

"So you don't know Sheriff Barrett?"

"Didn't say that. Phil Barrett still works for Congressman Welle he's some bigwig on his staff and they both still call Steamboat home. We've crossed paths a few times since I've been in town. Played golf with him once. Man has more slices than a deli. Barrett, not Welle. And he can't putt to save his life." Lauren asked, "Have you discussed the case with him?"

Percy scratched himself on the back of the neck but didn't reply.

Her fork in midair, Lauren persisted.

"I have to wonder how he feels about his work being scrutinized by a bunch of strangers."

I was surprised to observe Percy appear thoughtful. After a moment's contemplation, he said, "Nobody would like this case solved more than Phil Barrett. Well, maybe Mr. Franklin. But after him, Phil Barrett wants the answers the most." Lauren said, "I've been wondering about something else. Was Mr. Barrett the sheriff when Raymond Welle's wife was killed?"

Percy Smith seemed to find the change in direction curious. His eyebrows jumped up and caused the shape of eyes to change from narrow ovals to nickel-sized circles.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Evenly, Lauren said, "It has nothing to do with anything as far as I know. I knew her, that's all. Gloria Welle. I'm just asking."

Percy nodded in a manner that said

"I knew that," although it was apparent that he hadn't been aware of Lauren's connection to the Welles.

"That nastiness happened when Phil Barrett was sheriff. Not a pretty chapter in the congressman's life. Thank goodness I don't have to reopen that one." I said, "I'm not sure what you mean by that."

Percy gestured at Hans as though the man was a waiter in a diner. When Hans hesitated, Percy stared him down until he approached. Percy didn't look toward either Lauren or me when he continued.

"Just that it's solved, that's all. That case had all the pieces this other one doesn't. Witnesses who saw something, forensics that mean something, ballistics that handed us a gun, a motive that made sense-the whole nine yards.

I wish we had some of that going for us with the Franklin case."

"And the Hamamoto case," Lauren added.

"Yeah. That, too. Coffee, Hans. I need sugar." Percy reached into a leather carry-on and removed a paperback copy of Tom Clancy's latest. The book appeared to have been through a war that was fought in a humid climate. Percy folded it open, cracking the spine mercilessly. I guessed he was on page 60 or so.

The night was almost moonless when we glided to a stop at the Yampa Valley airport. Hans preceded Percy off the plane and helped him collect his plentiful luggage.

We were airborne again in minutes, the rolling mountaintops of the Routt National Forest quickly yielding to the sharp rock faces and glacial precipices of the Continental Divide. We'd be zooming down the Front Range in minutes, home in bed, I guessed, within the hour.

Adrienne, our neighbor across the lane, heard us drive up and released our dog out her front door. Emily bounded across the dirt and gravel toward our garage with astonishing enthusiasm. She pounced left, she charged right. Before proceeding farther, she lowered her head and scooped up a stick, shaking it with enough intensity to kill it.

From Adrienne's doorway, we heard a little male voice scream, "Emily! Em-i-ly!

Come back. Come back!"

Lauren called, "Hi, Jonas. She'll come back and see you tomorrow, okay? It's late. It's time for her to go to bed."

He lowered his arms as though he were a bird preparing to fly. He stomped one foot.

"She wants to play. She doesn't want to go to bed."

"Tomorrow, honey. Tell your mom thanks for watching her, okay?"

Jonas flapped his arms again and started to cry. Lauren placed the palm of one hand on her belly and looked at the watch on her other wrist. She shook her head and her face looked rueful. She said, "Gosh, sweets, I hope our baby isn't a night person. I don't know what I'll do."

I let our carry-ons fall from my hands and gave her a hug.

"We'll do fine.

You'll do fine."

She was looking back over my shoulder toward Adrienne's house.

"That's not Erin's car, is it?" Erin Rand was Adrienne's girlfriend-partner of quite a few months, and her first same-sex paramour ever.

I looked and said, "No It's not Erin's. Not unless she won the lottery." Erin was a struggling private detective. The car by Adrienne's front door was a cream-colored Lexus.

Lauren mused, "I haven't seen Erin in a couple of weeks. Do you think she's… I don't know. Do you think they broke up?"

"I don't know either. Adrienne hasn't said anything to me about any trouble in their relationship."

Lauren hooked an arm around my back.

"Its funny, don't you think, that if that car belongs to some new love interest of Adrienne's, that neither of us really has a clue what the gender of the driver might be?"

"I bet girl," I said without any confidence.

"That looks like an estrogen-colored Lexus."

"Estrogen-colored? What the hell does that mean? No. That's an androgynous Lexus. And I bet boy," Lauren countered, holding out her hand for a shake.

"Bet?

Let's say the loser cooks and cleans up dinners for a week."

"What about take-out or restaurants?"

"No more than twice."

"Why do you think Adrienne's gone back to seeing a guy? Do you know something I don't know?"

She spun me at my shoulders and pointed me toward the front door.

"Gosh, Alan, I certainly hope so."