Half sitting on the other end of the table despite a restless need to move, Finn said, “Far as we can tell, since sometime Saturday. There was no report because he argued with his wife and, in her words, stormed out afterward. Apparently not at all uncommon. She assumed he was staying with a buddy, which he’s done before after one of their fights. It wasn’t until this morning that she really got worried. Says he’s never stayed away so long. So we checked with the buddy—with all his friends—and there’s no sign of him. Now we’re asking everybody.”

“His wife is the last to have seen him?”

“My people are still running down some of his known haunts, but yeah. So far we haven’t found anyone else who saw him after he left work on Friday.”

“Does anyone else agree with his wife that disappearing like this is unusual for him?”

“Most of his friends agree. They say the fight wasn’t unusual but also wasn’t serious. Both he and Sharon are . . . passionate people. They argue. A lot. But he does tend to stay with a friend for a day or so and then come home.” Finn sighed. “Like I said, I’ve got my people out checking places, checking with other family members, with friends of the family.”

“Then that’s all you can do. For now.”

Finn studied the other man, thinking absently as he had before that Bishop didn’t really look like any kind of cop, especially dressed as casually as he was now, in dark slacks, a white button-up shirt open at the neck, no tie, and a black leather jacket. He looked physically powerful, which he certainly was, in excellent physical condition; he likely, Finn had decided, considered his body another tool to be kept well honed and ready for optimum use. His almost too-handsome face was lent a dangerous air by the thin, faint scar twisting down his left cheek, and held the exotic additions of a widow’s peak crowning his high forehead and a shock of pure white hair among the gleaming black at his left temple.

One of these days, I’m going to ask him about that bit of white hair, Finn thought.

“Family trait.” Bishop looked up with a faint smile, meeting Finn’s gaze steadily with slightly amused tarnished silver eyes. “In my family too, psychic abilities have been handed down for generations, though I didn’t know that until fairly recently. As for the white streak, it’s almost always caused by a psychic shock or extreme psychic effort of some kind. Very much so in my case. My cousin Cassie nearly died to earn hers.”

“I have my shields up,” Finn noted neutrally after a moment, saving the other information to be chewed over later.

“Yes, you do.”

Finn eyed him. “Just how strong is your telepathic Talent?” he asked finally.

“When Miranda and I are together, very strong.”

“Percentage?” Finn knew how the SCU rated such things.

“It’s been increasing over time. These days, I can usually read seventy-five to eighty-five percent of those around me and without touching them, which used to be necessary for me. Sometimes, in some situations, the percentage is higher. Depending on whether I push . . . or just listen in.”