Angelo consulted the piece of paper in his hand. “Number Eight Overlook Place.”

“That means it’s going to be on our left,” Franco said. They were just passing number twelve.

A few moments later Franco slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road. He and Angelo stared up a serpentine driveway lined with carriage lamps to a massive Tudor-style house set against a backdrop of soaring pine trees. Most of the multipaned windows were aglow with light. The property was the size of a football field.

“Looks like a goddamn castle,” Angelo complained.

“I must say, it’s not what I was hoping for,” Franco said.

“Well, what are we going to do?” Angelo asked. “We can’t just sit here. We haven’t seen a car since we pulled off the main drag back there.”

Franco put the car in gear. He knew Angelo was right. They couldn’t wait there. Someone would undoubtedly spot them, become suspicious, and call the police. They’d already passed one of those stupid NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH signs with the silhouette of a guy wearing a bandana.

“Let’s find out more about this sixteen-year-old chick,” Angelo said. “Like, where she goes to school, what she likes to do, and who are her friends. We can’t risk going up to the house. No way.”

Franco grunted in agreement. Just as he was about to press on the accelerator, he saw a tiny figure come out the front of the house. From such a distance he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “Somebody just came out,” he said.

“I noticed,” Angelo said.

The two men watched in silence as the figure descended a few stone stairs and then started down the driveway.

“Whoever it is, is kind of fat,” Franco said.

“And they got a dog,” Angelo said.

“Holy Madonna,” Franco said after a few moments. “It’s the girl.”

“I don’t believe this,” Angelo said. “Do you think it really is Cindy Carlson? I’m not used to things happening this easy.”

Astounded, the two men watched as the girl continued down the driveway as if she were coming directly to greet them. Ahead of her walked a tiny, caramel-colored toy poodle with its little pompom tail sticking straight up.

“What should we do?” Franco questioned. He didn’t expect an answer; he was thinking out loud.

“How about the police act?” Angelo suggested. “It always worked for Tony and me.”

“Sounds good,” Franco said. He turned to Angelo and stuck out his hand. “Let me use your Ozone Park police badge.”

Angelo reached into the vest pocket of his Brioni suit and handed over the walletlike badge cover.

“You stay put for the moment,” Franco said. “No reason to scare her right off the bat with that face of yours.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Angelo said sourly. Angelo cared about his appearance and dressed to the nines in a vain attempt to compensate for his face, which was severely scarred from a combination of chicken pox as a child, severe acne as a teenager, and third-degree burns from an explosion five years previously. Ironically, the explosion had been ignited thanks to Laurie Montgomery.