“Oh yes, you can be sure of that,” Sanderson said. For ten more minutes he cast questions at Hamel, but caught nothing more of interest. Sanderson bid the professor a courteous good-bye and rode the elevator down buoyed by his results. His next step was obvious, and at the entrance he called for another cab and was soon on his way to the waterfront.

For the first mile Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks for another glimpse of Edmund Deadmarsh. He forced himself to stop. It was like expecting lightning to strike the same spot twice. He settled back into the seat and turned on his phone, hoping for salvation from Elin Almgren. He found six messages, three each from Blix and Sjoberg. “Good Lord!”

With two quick touches Sanderson deleted them all. He turned his phone back off.

*   *   *

Blix knocked on Sjoberg’s office door and was waved in.

“Have you been able to contact Sanderson?” Sjoberg asked.

“I’m afraid not, sir. I keep getting his voice mail.”

“Yes, I’ve been getting the same. But let’s keep trying. What else?”

“I’ve had a busy morning. Our technicians were finally able to isolate the engine noise in the background of those mobile calls Deadmarsh made. They’ve confirmed the acoustic signature as being from a Lycoming.”

Sjoberg stared dumbly across his desk. “What the devil is a Lycoming?”

“It’s an engine that has only one use—small aircraft.”

Sjoberg thought about it. “So he dropped those mobiles from an aircraft?” The assistant commissioner rose from his chair and stood looking out the window. “The ferry ticket in Styrsvik, the ATM here. He’s been leading us a merry chase, hasn’t he?”

“It would appear so. As soon as I saw this I sent a man out to the air traffic control facility at Arlanda. I thought we should go back and try to identify the airplane.”

“Yes, that’s good. Any luck?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied a hesitant Blix. “The supervisor there knew exactly what we were looking for. She said it was a seaplane, based down in Oxelösund—even had the name of the charter company before our man asked.”

“How did—” Sjoberg stopped mid-thought. He slammed an open palm on his desk. “Sanderson, the bastard!”

“I’m afraid so. The woman at Arlanda confirmed it. He’s got a three-day head start on us.”

Under his breath, Paul Sjoberg cursed like the sailor he’d once been. Seeing a case that was deeply in arrears and falling more so, there was only one option—damage control. He dispatched Blix to Oxelösund to pursue the lead on his wayward detective. The sergeant had just left his office when the phone rang.

“Sjoberg.”

“Paul, it’s Anna Forsten. Christine Palmer has turned up. Apparently she was admitted to Saint Göran late last night. Get over there as soon as you can.”