Lakshmi took a second before she smiled. “Because you told the receptionist you had his cell phone. She would have patched you through to his voicemail if he wasn’t in the office. Now we know he’s at work. So what?”

“How many homicides, or even missing persons cases, does Bloomington have each year?”

“Not many. Two, three at the most.”

“If the lead detective gets a break on a two-year-old case with more national attention than he’s ever likely to have again, he’s not going to be sitting at his desk.”

“How can you be so sure, Caitlin?”

“Do you know the Picasso napkin story?”

“The artist?”

“Goes like this: Picasso’s at a garden party. A woman asks him to draw her portrait on a napkin, something she’ll gladly pay for. He takes the napkin, draws for thirty seconds, hands it back, says, ‘Five hundred francs.’ Outraged, the woman says, ‘Five hundred francs? You drew that in thirty seconds.’ Picasso says, ‘Yes, but it took me thirty years to be able to do that portrait in thirty seconds.’ ”

“That’s a great story. Is it true?”

“Who knows—did you miss the point?”

Lakshmi reached for the car’s ignition but stopped when Caitlin’s phone rang. “Is it Greenwood?”

Caitlin answered; let Martinez show off.

“Your lady in the woods appears to be one Frances Danforth, buried in nineteen fifty-five. Hunters digging a latrine brought her up. Impressed?”

“Very,” Caitlin said. “That’s the kind of skill that got you promoted to anti-terrorism.”

Martinez paused for enough time for her to validate her guess.

“Let me know when you’re back in town, hermosita. I’ll neither confirm nor deny your inference in person.”

“I look forward to it.”

She hung up, pointed to the road.

“Back to school, Anjale.”

Chapter 7

CHAPTER

7

THE NEED TO return Lakshmi to her car gave Caitlin a polite out but also left her facing an inconvenient truth. With access to a rental, she could easily drive down to Tapp Road. It was fifteen minutes to one, and her only appointment was dinner with Mary and her husband; she had plenty of time.

She parked at a curb, pulled up a map on her phone. Four miles south. Only two turns. She put a signal on, waited for traffic, watched the green arrow blink. Traffic thinned, then disappeared altogether, but Caitlin’s rental didn’t move an inch.

She closed her eyes, exhaled.

Troy Woods won’t be there. The building might not even be there anymore.

She opened her eyes, unbuckled her seatbelt, took another deep breath.

Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but answered like she’d won a contest. “This is Caitlin Bergman. Thank you for calling.”

The unfamiliar male voice gave a slight chuckle. “Did you just thank me for calling?”

She flipped her turn signal off. “Sure did. Who is this, by the way?”